The graves at Kilmorna; a story of '67

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THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

By canon SHEEHAN, D.D.

Luke Delmege: A Novel.

Lisheen: or the Test of the Spirits. A Novel.

Glen ANA ar: A Novel of Irish Life.

The Blindness of Dr. Gray: A Novel of Irish
Life.

The Graves at Kilmorna: A Story of '67

Parerga: a Com-panion Volume to " Under the
Cedars and the Stars."

Lost Angel of a Ruined Paradise: A Drama of
Modern Life.

The Intellectuals: A71 Experiment in Irish
Club-life.

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

THE GRAVES AT
KILMORNA

A STORY OF '67

BY

The Very Rev.
CANON P. A. SHEEHAN, D.D.

Author of

" My New Curate "; " Luke Delmege "

etc., etc.

New Imfressiox

LONGMANS,

GREEN,

AND

CO.

FOURTH AVENUE ^ 30TH STREET NEW YORK

LONDON. BOMBAY

, CALCUTTA AND MADRAS

'

1918

Sao

ra Barbara. Cai1f-•'^'^

COPYRIGHT, IQIS, BY
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

BOOK I

THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

BOOK I

I

On a certain summer evening in the year 1866, a
number of schoolboys, of different ages, were playing
cricket along a smooth crease that was worn out of
the rough ground behind the market-place in a cer-
tain Midland town. The sun was setting, and it
threw the high walls of the market-place in long
shadows across the ground, whilst it lit up the magnifi-
cent foliage of the trees that filled and crowned the
glen beyond the river. In these shadows, a young
man was walking up and down, now reading closely
from a book which he held near to his eyes, now glan-
cing away from the book to the boys at play, and seem-
ing to look at them with eyes of pity, whilst he enjoyed
their shrill shouts, and all the exuberance and glory
of their untamed animal spirits. From the town
that was hidden in a hollow beneath them, came
shouts and cheers from time to time, at which the boys
paused from their play, as if doubting whether they
were not losing some fun; and then went on, batting
and bowling, as if their games were a more serious
attraction.

Suddenly, two or three great, hulking fellows,
somewhat the worse for drink, came around the corner
of the market-place, and lurched forward to where

4 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

the boys were playing. One of them shouted: "Come
here!" and a young pale-faced lad, the beads of per-
spiration starting on his forehead from the exercise,
came hesitatingly towards him. The latter took out
a dirty piece of paper and the stump of a pencil, and
said in a hoarse, menacing voice:

"Write an ordher!"

"For how much?" said the boy, putting the pencil
to his lips.

"Twelve gallons of porther!" said the man, "an'
you needn't put no name to it!"

The boy wrote the order, and handed it back. Then
he went forward to his wicket. The men departed.
The boys shouted with laughter.

Then the young man came out of the shadow of the
wall, and approached the boys. There was an instant
hush. He was young; but he was the assistant-
teacher in their school, and he was a grave, kind man.
He called the boys together.

"Philip," he said to the young lad, who had written
the order, "what are you after doing?"

The boy looked ashamed and troubled, and rubbed
his moist hands along his pants.

"Tim Doolan asked me to write an order. Sir,"
he said, "and I did it. We do it every day."

"An order for what?" said the teacher, looking at
the boy with calm, grave eyes.

"For porter, Sir! For twelve gallons of porter."

"These men were almost drunk?"

"They were. Sir!"

"And altogether degraded?"

The boy was silent.

"Yes! Altogether degraded," said the young man,
sternly. "They are hired to shout for that place-

A STORY OF '67 5

hunter and Castle-hack, who is fighting this election
just to leap from the backs of purchased slaves to the
Bench; and they are paid for shouting with drink.
Hark!"

The sounds of hoarse yells and cheers came up
again from the town.

"Do you know what that is?"

"They're cheering for Serjeant Holloway, Sir!"

"Of course! And Serjeant Holloway will be prose-
cuting in a few months, and sending to the gallows or
penal servitude every brave young heart that beats
for Ireland."

There was a pause. The boys looked ashamed.
The teacher seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then
he said:

"Pull up your stumps for the evening and come
with me!"

He led them over to the ditch that bounded the
glen; crossed through the stile, and sitting down on
the deep dry grass, he bade them be seated around
him. Deep down in the valley, the little stream
pushed its way with difficulty through the sedges and
rushes that choked it. Across the valley the steep
declivity was clothed with verdure to the summit.
A clump of four enormous fir trees stood apart, where
the green field showed. To the left the valley was
buried in shadow, the little chalet in an orchard casting
its black reflection up against the opposite hill. The
teacher looked on at the lovely scene in silence for a
while. The boys were mute.

"It is a beautiful view," he said at length, "and
ours is the most lovely country on the face of the earth.
We ought to love every blade of grass in its fields,
every stone in its hollows, every leaf on its trees,

6 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

every stream that runs, every hill that begets the
streams — "

He lowered his voice.

"Every man that has shed his blood for Ireland."

The boys looked up in amazement. They had only
known this teacher as a quiet, plodding, bookish
pedant, who lived in a garret on about forty pounds
a year,

"You heard me say a few minutes ago" he went on,
that these wretched porter-drinkers and shouters
were degraded. They are! There are always two
classes in Ireland — the noble and the degraded.
You have seen the latter. Perhaps, before we go
hence, I may show you some types of the former.
Meanwhile listen!"

He opened the book which he had been reading,
and read, or rather recited, a certain poem. The boys
hung on his words. He closed the book.

"Now, that's a poem; and every poem is a picture.
Would you like to see the picture?"

"We would," said the boys eagerly, expecting that
their teacher would pull a diorama from his pocket.

"Now, look," he said.

He pointed to the long slopes of the valley at the
other side of the river, and said:

"There are the Dutch troops all along that hill
at the other side. There are their batteries; there
are the infantry camps; there, the cavalry. There, in
the centre, just above the quarry, is the tent of the
Dutch and English generals. The red flag of England
is floating above it! Here, along the plateau, is the
French army. It stretches along up there beyond
the summer-house and around the Convent for over
a mile. Its heavy guns are masked here in the market-

A STORY OF '67 7

place; and just here behind us, occupying the van and
the post of danger, are the watch-fires and tents of the
Irish Brigade. They have stolen away from Ireland,
shipped as cargo. They have been beaten — beaten
before the walls of Limerick, beaten at the Boyne,
beaten everywhere; but — conquered? Never! And
now here they are to break a lance once more with
their hereditary foes. The watch-fires are blazing
all around, and the men, their arms piled near them,
are sleeping around the watch-fires. But the Captains
are awake. They are seated, young and old, around
the table in the mess-tent. The canvas is flapping
above their heads, and underneath it is tugging away
at the pegs. Their tunics are open. Their helmets
are hung around the sides of the tent, their swords hang-
ing beneath them. The President rises, and proposes
the first toast. He is grey and grizzled, but the glass is
steady in his iron fingers.

'"Comrades! A health to the monarch of France!'

They are in the French camp. They have cast in their
lot with France. France has sheltered them; and
therefore,

'"With cheers and vrith bumpers they've done as he bade,
For King Louis is loved by the Irish Brigade!'

Now comes the second toast:
"'Here's a health to King James; and they bent as they quaffed!*

Mark that! No cheering now. For that was Shemus
the Coward, who fled from the field of the Boyne, when
the Irish soldiers shouted: 'Change Kings, and we'll
fight you again.' But they bent as they quaffed.
There's the Irish always. Too loyal! And they

8 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

always kept a soft corner in their hearts for those
miserable Stuarts.
"The third toast:

'"ffere's to George the Elector! And fiercely they laughed!'

Yes! They only hope that they shall meet and cross
swords tomorrow with the deadly enemy of their
country and their Creed.
"The fourth toast:

* " Good luck to the girls, whom we loved long ago!
Where the Shannon, and Barrow, and Blackwater flow! '

"What are they doing now? Nothing! These
Wild Geese have something else, besides girls, to think
of tonight! But mark the fifth toast:

"'God Prosper Old Ireland!'
What are they doing now? Ah, boys, mark this!
See how finely and dramatically Davis draws the
picture. They set down their glasses in silence; and
became as white as a girl who has seen a ghost:

You'd think them afraid,
So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade! '

Yes! There's the finest touch in all ballad literature.
The thought of the old motherland has paralysed them.
They remember all — her mountains, her lakes, her
valleys, her seas! They recall her long night of suffer-
ing, redressed only by her indomitable Constancy.
And they remember, how near they were to victory.
Oh! If they only had hearkened to the voice of their
Bishop and that Franciscan friar who told them to
hold out to the last! But it is of no use. They were
misled and deceived; and their only hope is now, to
fiesh their sabres tomorrow in the breasts of the Dutch-
men! Poor fellows! poor fellows!

A STORY OF '67 '^ ' ANTHON'Y'S £.9

SANTA DAKBAftATcM
" * For on far foreign fields from Dunkirk to Belgrade,
Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade!^

No matter! It is the field of honour — but hark!" —

The sounds of shouting and yelling came up again
from the town. Clearly, some one now was addressing
the mob that filled the streets in the twilight.

"Yes! There are the descendants of the Wild
Geese," said the schoolmaster bitterly. "There's
what we have come to now! A drunken mob, shout-
ing for their country's enemies. O my God!"

The man was so much in earnest, that the boys felt
for him; and in the eyes of one or two, strange fires
began to kindle. The night stole down, and the scent
of the white clover and the wild hyacinths that filled
the lower meadows crept up on the night air. Far
down along the white road, little detachments of men,
two or three in a group, were filing along. Suddenly,
the whole tone of the young teacher changed, as he
said:

"Where are these boys going, I wonder? For a
game of bowls, I suppose, or pitch-and-toss? "

The boys looked at one another, and then at the
teacher. One of them said shyly, and in a rather
cautious tone:

"They're the Fenians, Sir, going up to drill in
Dempsey's grove!"

"Oh, indeed," said the young master, unconcernedly.
"Then the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade
have come to life again! Good-night, boys, 'tis getting
late, and you have your lessons for tomorrow to
learn!"

They clambered over the ditch, and ran across to
the market-house and down the street to the election
meeting. Half-way down there was a crowd, and

10 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

they were curious to know what it meant. In the
midst of a dozen men a doctor was on his knees, and in
his shirt-sleeves, pumping whiskey from the stomach
of a poor labourer, who seemed on the point of death.
When the boys had disappeared, the teacher went
slowly down the declivity, and joined his comrades in
the grove beyond the river.

II

At the end of that street, and facing upwards
towards it was the principal hotel in the town. The
glimmering twilight showed a vast mass of people
wedged together, and listening to the eloquence of a
short, dapper little man, whose voice, now somewhat
hoarse from exertion, scarcely penetrated to the edges
of the crowd. He had dropped all his fine sentiments
about patriotism, and the advancement of the country,
etc., and was now amusing his audience with local
allusions, nicknames, etc., which evoked tremendous
laughter and applause. A certain bank manager,
who was opposed to him in the Conservative interest,
he had dubbed Modhereen Ruadh, referring to the
man's red hair. A certain opponent in the crowd he
shut up by asking the people:

" Wouldn't any of ye, boys, put a sop in that calf's
mouth?" which effectually stifled that opponent. He
quoted from sundry ballads, which he had composed,
and which the ballad-singers were chanting around
the street-corners everywhere. Then, under a part-
ing salvo of cheers, he bade them be ready for the
morning, and come to the aid of their country by voting
for one of its most eminent and successful sons.

When he retired, a strange figure appeared at
another window of the hotel. He belonged to the
local gentry; but he was a dummy. Yet for an hour
he kept the people in a roar of laughter by pantomimic

12 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

gestures and contortoins, which they interpreted as
clearly as if he spoke articulately. Meanwhile, a
band, consisting of flute, triangle, concertina, and
dulcimer, was playing at a furious rate on the leads
of a neighbouring shop. And then, when the night
fell, there was a sudden hush, as the street far down
near the town clock was illuminated suddenly by a
red glow, and a hostile crowd, with blazing torches
and tar-barrels, and headed by a brass band, came
triumphantly along. In an instant, the crowds got
intermingled in a furious fight. Shouts were raised
— party-cries of little meaning. The torches of the
hostile party were extinguished, their drums and
instruments broken, their blazing tar-barrels flung on
the ground, and the victors came back, drunk and
exulting.

The candidate, Serjeant Holloway, had come down-
stairs, and was standing, napkin in hand, on the steps
of the hotel. Some few lawyers and other guests were
with him.

"Any casualties on our side, constable?"

"Not many, your honour. Some scalp-wounds,
merely. But I fear that one poor fellow has had his
eye burned out by a torch; and the doctor is attending
a woman over at Callaghan's."

"What's the matter?"

"One of the barrels fell near her, and the paraffin
set fire to her clothes. Her face is badly burnt, I
fear!"

"Ah, well, chances of war, I suppose. Here, give
the poor woman this silver — for medical help only.
Remember, it is only to secure proper assistance for
her wounds."

He gave the ofl&cer a handful of silver.

A STORY OF '67 13

"I understand, yer honour," said the oflBcer, with
a grin.

Some of the crowd brought over a fool, a man of
gigantic stature, clad in long, cast-off cloth habili-
ments, a battered silk hat on his head, and immense,
but broken boots on his feet.

"Bill Leham will jump over a straw for a sixpence,
yer 'anner!" said one of the crowd.

"Done!" said the Serjeant gaily.

The straw was placed on the flags where the gentle-
men stood, and the fool went up the steps. He spat
on his hands several times, and several times essayed
to jump the straw, but failed; spat on his hands again,
and cried out in agony at the thought of losing the
sixpence:

"Sand ^ now! sand now!"

But it was in vain. But he got the sixpence and
the gentlemen had their amusement.

Another fool was brought up, who offered to swallow
a live mouse for sixpence. But the gentlemen declined
to witness that exhibition. They had dined too well;
and there were some fragments remaining.

During all this time, a certain young fellow, who
seemed to be little more than eighteen years of age, was
leaning up against the shop-door of a baker, and at the
corner of a lane that led up from the main street. Al-
though young-looking there were curious lines — cres-
cent shaped — around the mouth that gave him a more
responsible appearance. They were lines that might
deepen into smiles, or smooth themselves out in fierce
and uncontrollable anger. His hands were sunk deep
in his pockets, and his hat was pulled down over his
eyes, which gleamed beneath it with anger and con-

» Stand.

14 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

tempt at what they witnessed. He was chatting with
the proprietor, a thin man, with light sandy hair, and
a beard, now tending to greyness, and cut in the shape
of an American goatee. The two men were talking
in suppressed tones, and the vast crowd never seemed
to notice them; but, when the furious charge of the
opposing faction was made in the street, a big carter
lurched up against the young man, and nearly threw
him. But, by a skilful push of his shoulder, the
young fellow sent the carter sprawling on the street.
Yet it was no assault, but merely a defensive act;
but the young fellow was so savage he never held
out a hand to raise the man, and the street was now
strewn with fallen heroes like him.

"Begor, that was a hard push. Master Mylie," said
the carter rising. ''You're the only man in the town
tonight that could do that, and not pay well for it."

"I did nothing to you, Jem," said the young man
coolly. "You fell against me, and I stood aside.
That was all."

"Serving me right to be here at all," said the labourer,
brushing his coat and trousers. "What do the likes
of us want here?"

"What, indeed," said the young man angrily,
"except to swallow the porter of that man, who has
already sent our best and bravest men into the hells
of English prisons?"

The man slunk away muttering: "But, after all,
sure he's wan of ourselves; and he's good to the poor."

"There's the damnable expression that paralyses
all these fools," said the young man to his companion.
" Let a scoundrel be base, corrupt, vicious, a traitor or
a sneak, it is all right with this race of mendicants, if
he's good to the poor. The poor, the poor, the poor!

A STORY OF '67 15

What an epitome of our history is there, — hat in hand
for ever before a world that laughs at us, and bene-
factors who think, because they fling a penny into our
caubeens, they have a right to rob us of all we possess.
But, look at this! That woman will be burned to
death."

He ran over to where a poor creature, half stupid
from drink, had fallen in the scuffle. A few torches
were extinguished near her; but a paraffin barrel
had burst, and its staves, lined and saturated with
oil and tar, had set fire to the woman's clothes. She
shrieked, and then became insensible. The half-
drunken crowd drew back in fear. The police rushed
in; but before they could reach her, the young man
had flung his coat around her blazing hair and gar-
ments, and extinguished the flames. But she was
horribly burnt about the neck and face. He raised,
her up tenderly, and, with some help, got her over to
the baker's shop, where she lay insensible, whilst the
whole place was filled with the horrible odour of burn-
ing flesh and scorched clothes, and tar and paraffin.

For several minutes she did not recover conscious-
ness. Then, she opened her eyes, and looked up full
into the face of her preserver. She was a poor apple-
woman, fond of drink, and kept from the workhouse
by charity.

"Do you know me, Bess?" said the young man
tenderly.

"Is that you. Master Mylie?" she said, in a dazed,
stupid manner. "Oh! Holy Mother!" she continued,
as she became conscious of her terrible agony, "some
divil threw me under that barrel, and it is burning
me like Hell. No matter! Give us another half -wan;
and three cheers for Serjeant HoUoway!"

16 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

The young man muttered a curse, then he laid back
the head of the injured woman gently, and went out,
and passed up the lane. When he was out of sight,
he leaned up against the wall of the bakery and wept
and sobbed like a child.

Throwing the weak emotion from him, however,
with a strong effort of the will, he recovered his com-
posure rapidly, and strode up along the passage in the
darkness, until he reached the wall that terminated
the lane, and guarded the deep quarry beneath. Over
his head, the gable of a huge grain-store loomed black
against the sky. Lights gleamed in the back rooms
of neighbouring streets. The sounds of tumult had
died away from the thoroughfares. Night swallowed
up all hideous sights and sounds in its magnificent
silences.

He sat on the wall for the few moments' reflection
he permitted himself, and began to think.

"Are these people worth the sacrifice I and my com-
rades are making? Are they not too degraded, too
drink-besodden, too bribe-corrupted, to regain the
instincts of freemen? We shall perish, and they will
laugh at our folly. We shall rot and fester, as our
brothers are rotting in Millbank and Dartmoor, and
who will care? "

It was true, absolutely true. The men who had risen
in '65, and had been tried by Special Commission, and
been sentenced to twelve and fifteen years' penal
servitude, were already forgotten. That lawyer with
his glib tongue had driven them into felon cells. The
young patriot pictured their loneliness, their misery,
their deprivation of freedom, their daily work as beasts
of burden, quarrying stones in Portland, or dragging
granite from the quarries of Dartmoor. He saw the

A STORY OF '67 17

felon's garb, with its barbed arrows, he realized the
taunts and jibes, the lashes and whips of English
gaolers; and again he asked :

"Is the game worth the cost? Am I justified in
drawing these poor lads into such hells of human
misery? And all for a drunken pack of mendicants,
who would sell their country for a tierce of porter? "

Reason concluded that it was madness, treason, in-
justice, cruelty, combined.

But then, there arose before the mind of the boy all
that he had ever read or heard of the history of his
country; and, as he looked upwards to where the dark,
sharp edge of the quarry cut across the paler sky, he
thought he saw the long procession of her martyrs and
confessors, her warriors and chieftains, her priests
and nobles, move slowly by; and, as the words came
to his lips:

"I think of all thy dark, long thrall,
My martyrs, brave and true.
And dash apart the tears that start,
We must not weep for you, dear land,
We must not weep for you."

He leaped from the wall, and clenching his bony
fingers till the nails cut the palms he strode back and
downwards along the lane again.

Ill

Half-way down the lane, there was a deep, wide
gate, now open. It led into an immense yard, sur-
rounded on every side by huge stores, which had been
used for corn and other merchandise in more prosper-
ous times. Myles Cogan entered, and turning to the
left, he passed into the lower story of one of the build-
ings. Three or four men were playing cards around
a table, which was dimly lighted by a tallow candle
in a tin sconce. They rose as Myles entered, and gave
him a -military salute. He muttered "Aughrim" in
a low tone, and at once climbed a rough ladder to the
loft overhead. The moment he set foot on the floor
above, the ladder was withdrawn underneath.

He was now in an immense loft, absolutely destitute
of furniture of every kind. A smell of corn and hay
filled the air. Heavy chains with strong iron hooks
hung from the ceiling. They were coated with red
rust. The place was full of men. It was lighted
with dim paraffin lamps, suspended from these hooks.
The windows were carefully filled with corn-bags, so
that not a single pencil of light could pierce through.
The men were variously employed — some sharpening
pikes and bayonets, some studying military books,
one or two were practising at a target with spring
guns.

The moment Myles Cogan appeared, there was

A STORY OF '67 19

silence. He called them together and drew a paper
from his pocket.

"Section A, where?"

"In Hazlewood," was the answer.

"Under whom?"

"Barry!"

"Section B?"

"Over at the Kennels!"

"Under whom?"

"Lysaght!"

"Section C?"

"In Dempsey's grove!"

"Under whom?"

"Halpin!"

He folded the paper, and looked around.

"There is a consignment of goods from Cork by the
goods train tonight, reaching the station at 2 a.m.
What carrier is on? "

"Mooney, Sir. Jem Mooney!"

The young man reflected deeply for a few minutes.
He then said:

"Can Mooney be thoroughly relied upon?"

"He can, Sir!" said a middle-aged man. "I've
known Jem Mooney for years. He has been always
with the brotherhood."

"But he drinks; and we can trust no man that
drinks. I saw him in the street not half an hour ago,
and he was under the influence of drink. He rolled
up against me, and I shouldered him, and he fell. I
don't think he liked it!"

There was a few moments' silence.

"Is the consignment a heavy one?" asked a young
man, with fierce, scowling features.

"Very! It couldn't be more important!"

20 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Where is it to go?"

"Into the Protestant graveyard. It is to be buried
in one of the old vaults in the old church!"

"Then I propose Crowley shall take it. This is
too important a matter for a man under drink!"

"I agree with you, Manus," said the young Cap-
tain. "I want a few volunteers to take the arms from
the carter, carry them through the lower lane, and
deposit them in the old Norcott vault. It is at the
east side of the old church. You'll know it easily by
the oval slab in the walls above the vault. Let me
see! We want four! You, Manus, and you, Mike,
and Paddy, and Murty. Is it all right?"

The men nodded assent. And then the young
Captain said in a lower voice:

"Comrades, gather together round about me here!"

The men, about forty in number, crept close to-
gether around their young Captain. They were strong,
sinewy fellows, accustomed to bend their backs to their
daily toil, and go through life without pillows beneath
their elbows. There were masons, carpenters, brick-
layers, shoemakers — representatives of every kind of
trade amongst them; and, strange to say, many of
them, who had been ploughing through life in a
broken-backed, weary manner, were suddenly stiffened
and strengthened into some kind of unnatural vigour,
when they became soldiers of the Republic. And in
their eyes, gleaming with expectancy, as they stood
there in the dim light shed by the smoky stable-lamp
above their heads, there shone a steady light of deter-
mination, as of men who had deliberately staked all
on some desperate issue, and were fully prepared to
abide by the result.

The young Captain was nearly a head in height above

A STORY OF '67 21

the tallest man present; and to give himself a greater
leverage over the meeting, he pulled over an old soap-
box, and stood on it.

"Comrades," he said, in low level tones, "I was
going to betray you and our cause less than half an
hour ago."

The men drew closer together, and murmured their
unbelief.

"Listen to me. I don't mean that I was going to
give your names to the Castle, or to call upon the
Solicitor-General at the King's Arms, and arrange a
little bribe with him — "

" You couldn't do it, Master Mylie, even if you tried,"
said a voice.

"Well, we mustn't boast," said the young Captain
with a shrug. "But what I mean is this. I was down
there with John Callaghan, watching the proceedings
this evening. I saw that man, who sent Kickham,
Luby and O'Leary to gaol a few months ago. I heard
the scoundrel cajoling and humbugging these wretched
people; I heard him talking about love of country,
when I knew the ruffian cared nothing about his coun-
try but to sell it. I heard him talk about commercial
progress, when he knew that every one of our indus-
tries were killed by the government that pays him
his handsome salary, and when he knew that the only
progress he cared for, was his own progress from the
bar to the bench. I heard him cracking jokes about
decent old neighbours in this town. And then I saw
him come down with a well-filled stomach after dinner
to amuse himself with the antics of our town fools.
And then — I thought of Luby, of O'Leary, of Kick-
ham, after their dinner of skilly stretched on their
felon-beds in Dartmoor and Millbank, in the midst

22 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

of all the criminal and social refuse of England; and I
asked myself, 'Did these men act wisely and well in
giving up their homes, their wives, their little chil-
dren, their human happiness for a people, who had
already forgotten them, and were now cheering from
their drunken throats for the man that had sent the
bravest hearts in Ireland into the hells of English
prisons?'"

He paused, and looked anxiously into the eyes of
his followers. Sure enough, they were flaming with
indignation; but there was no wavering there.

"Look you, comrades!" he continued, speaking more
slowly and in a lower tone, "it was not of myself I was
thinking. I have neither chick, nor child, nor wife,
nor even mother. I have no ambition in life. I
don't want to be a place-hunter, nor a J. P. I have
never thought of anything higher or greater than to
strike one smashing blow for Ireland, and then lie
down to die on some Irish hillside. But I am thinking
of you; and the question that tortured me half an
hour ago, when I saw these drunken helots cheering
that salaried place-hunter was this: am I justified
in taking these men away from their families, breaking
up their little homes, and consigning them to a violent
death, or what is worse than death, a lifelong imprison-
ment, merely to get themselves laughed at as fools
by the very people they strove to emancipate? That's
the question that tortured me, and shall I admit it,
drew tears from my eyes."

He paused, and Manus, with a deeper scowl on his
forehead, said, with something like a sneer:

"And what conclusion did you come to, Master
Mylie?"

"I'll tell you. As I was thinking of such things —

A STORY OF '67 23

of that lawyer with his jokes and jests, of that awful
crowd, of that poor fellow who had his eye burned out
by a torch and of poor Bessie Rooney with her neck
and face in flames, suddenly I saw a different sight.
All that horror was rolled away; and I saw defiling
before my eyes, and down along the ages every man
from Owen Roe and Red Alastrum, who fought or
suffered for Ireland. The great procession passed
before me, and I thought every man in it looked at
me. I saw Aughrim and Athlone and Limerick; I
saw Emmet on the scaffold, and Orr, and Fitzgerald;
I saw Sarsfield on the plain of Landen and Clare at
Fontenoy; I saw Dwyer in the fastnesses of the Wick-
low mountains, and Dwyer on the Commeragh range;
I saw Meagher leading up his brigade along St. Maryes'
Heights and to certain death, and I thought whilst
he was scaling those heights he was dreaming of SUe-
venamon; and I thought that what these men had
done, it was no dishonour in us to do; and that where
these heroes had led, we need never be ashamed to
follow. Was I right, or wrong?"

"Right, Captain! Right, Master Mylie!" was the
reply.

"And then," said Myles, lowering his voice and
speaking with emotion, "I forgot those helots; and
remembered that it was the motherland that called
us. And I thought of that motherland, this Ireland
of ours, with all her magic beauty, — beauty of moun-
tain and lake, of brown bog, and sandy seashore, of
her seas and her rivers — of all these things that grow
into our lives and become a part of our being; and then
I thought of her long night of sorrow, of how she has
been trampled and shamed and degraded, and then
held up by her iron masters as an object of derision to

24 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

the world, — her masters who laughed at the hunger
and ignorance they caused; her masters, who held
up her rags and fluttered them in the face of the na-
tions, who never knew, or cared that it was these very
masters who cut every weal into her body, and took
the bread from her mouth, and snipped her garments
into fragments, until I grew mad with the thought,
that perhaps the one chance of my life would escape
me — to wreak vengeance on her foes, or save that
motherland from further humiliation,

"And then," said the young captain, "I flung every
selflsh thought to the winds; and I dug the nails into
the flesh of my palms, and I swore that, whoever else
shall turn back from our sacred enterprise, it shall
not be your Captain."

"No, nor your soldiers," said a big mason, lifting
his head. "But, Master Mylie, that's all settled long
and merry ago. What we want to know now is, when
the dance is going to begin! Begor, we're getting the
coaldd gribtin ^ in our legs."

"Thrue for you, Dan," said another. "You see,
Captain, we're Irish; and it isn't the fighting we
mind, but the waiting for the fighting. 'Tis enough
to knock all the nerve out of us to keep us in the
ditches waiting for the first shot."

"You won't have long to wait," said the young
Captain. "Before '67 dawns upon us, we'll have
measured ourselves with the enemy. But, this time
there must be no failure. We've failed too often
already; and this time there must be no mistake. So
the C. O. writes to me. Arms are coming in with every

' Pronounced "Cullagrufeen," vulgarly, "pins and needles,"
literally, "sleep in the blood."

A STORY OF '67 25

tide into the country; and the men who are to lead us
are slipping in with them.

The French are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.'

Thiggin thu?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" they shouted. "But oh! for the
first bonfire on Slieve Ruadh!"

IV

Myles Cogan's father was a prosperous merchant
in the town — so prosperous that he was able to hold
also a mill, a small farm, and a pretty villa in the
country. Here he lived with his son, and his only
daughter, Agnes, still a convent-pupil, but just pass-
ing into womanhood. And she was tall, and preco-
cious beyond her years; and she had one idol, her
brother, Myles. The delight of her life was to make
everything smooth for him; and just at this time,
her voluntary services were much in requisition,
because there was a growing breach between old Dan
Cogan and his son. Strange, weird rumours about
his boy were filtering in from the town. They seemed
too absurd for belief; but they were making an impres-
sion on the old man.

The morning of the election, after breakfast, he was
carefully reading the speech of the Solicitor-General of
the night before, when Myles, in his everyday garb,
came in, and sat down. After a few angry glances at
the boy, his father said in a studiously composed
manner:

"I don't see your name at the committee-meeting
last night?"

"Committee-meeting?" said Myles. ",Who8e com-
mittee-meeting, Sir?"

"The Solicitor-General's, of course. There is no
other."

A STORY OF 'G7 27

"And why do they want on a committee a boy like
me?" said Myles, with much humility.

"You're of age," said his father. "You're no
longer a boy; and I want you to take your rightful
place in the town and before the country."

"And what is that, Sir?" said Myles, meekly.

"What is that? You're trifling with me, Sir!" said
his father sternly.

"I assure you. Sir," said Myles, "that I am puzzled
to know what you mean. You are the head and
representative of our family; and it is to you, and not
to me that people look. You know there is an ancient
prejudice against callow youth like myself, and the
electors would not care to see themselves represented
before these strangers by a boy, like me."

His father looked at him keenly, as if he would like
to discern the meaning behind these words; but the
face of the young man was unmoved.

"You're young," said the father, in a mollified
manner, "and 'tis all the better. But do you know,
Myles, what occurred to me last night? "

Myles was silent.

"As I sat in that committee-room, and looked around
at all these distinguished men, and particularly at
the most distinguished of them, I mean, our candi-
date, I thought to myself, — well, now, all these gentle-
men are sons of shopkeepers, like myself. I knew
Serjeant Holloway's father well. He kept a small
leather shop just there within a stone's throw of where
his illustrious son was speaking last night. He went
to College; became a Counsellor; and now — "

He stopped; and Myles said:

"He will be elected to the English House of Com-
mons today!"

28 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Not a doubt about it. He commands two hundred
votes in this constituency. He becomes member
of Parliament for his native town, then Attorney-
General, then Judge, then Lord Chancellor; what a
career of honour and usefulness! And I said, why
shouldn't Myles Cogan follow in his footsteps? You
have ability, talent, I have money to push you on.
What is to stop you? "

Myles was silent for a moment; and his father went
on:

"Yes, I said in my own mind, why shouldn't my son
push himself forward in life as well as Serjeant Hollo-
way? 'Tis a lawful ambition; and I think, nay,
I'm sure I have secured influence enough already to
push you on at the Bar!"

"'Tis only one barrister out of four hundred that
succeeds," said Myles temporising. "It is not pleas-
ant, I believe, to have to wander around the Four
Courts for years, a briefless barrister; and to have to
bribe, or court the favour, of every country attorney in
the Circuit."

"Don't fear that, my boy," said the old man, com-
ing over and placing his hand on the broad shoulders
of his son. "I've settled all that. A certain person —
we name no names — came over to me last night after
dinner, and he said: ' Dan Cogan,' said he, * you're the
oldest and staunchest friend I have here. My father
and yours went to school together down at the Long
Room, and many a time I heard my father speak of
honest Tom Cogan. Well, we move in different spheres
of life,' says he, 'but I know a man when I meet him;
and that's the reason, Dan,' says he, * why I insisted that
you should be my proposer, and no other. And now,
I'll say no more,' says he. * A nod is as good as a wink

A STORY OF '67 29

to a blind horse.' That's the pleasant way these
gentlemen have of talking. ' Thiggin — thu?' says he.
' Thiggin go mach!' says I. And now, all you have to
do is to run up to Dublin. Money is no object with
me. Spend as much as you like. Young men must
sow their wild oats. We can't put old heads upon
young shoulders. But when I see Q.C. to your name,
I'll forgive you everything."

He gave his son a smart, confidential slap on the
shoulders; and just then, Agnes put in her pretty little
head, and said:

"Pap, there's a messenger from the Court-house.
You're wanted up immediately!"

He gave a wink at Myles, a wink of much, though
not mutual confidence, and strode pompously away.

Agnes came in; and her big brother took her up in
his arms, and kissed her, saying:

"You little guardian angel, you just came in the
nick of time. Do you know what father wants me to
be?"

"No!" she said, with eyes wide open with
curiosity.

"A d — d lawyer and Castle hack, like this Hollo-
way!"

"Myles!" said the girl solemnly. "I'd rather see
you stretched beside our dead mother!"

"And there spoke my poor mother," he said, kiss-
ing his sister again. "But you see, father's head is
turned by this fellow's compliments. Good heavens!
Myles Cogan — a lawyer and a Q.C. Was there
ever such a somersault before!"

"That's all right, Mylie," said his sister, coming
down to dull, prose fact. "But the question is now,
how are you to get out of it? "

30 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"You'll do that much for me," he said confidently.
"Man's wisdom is no match for woman's wit."

"Thanks awfully! as our genteel folks say," said
Agnes, " and I undertake the commission. But I
want to have two or three little facts cleared up first."

"All right!" said he gaily, "go ahead!"

He sank into an armchair; and his sister sat upon
the arm of it, and began to play with her brother's
hair.

"First, I want to know," she said, "when is the
pantomime to be?"

"Pantomime? What pantomime?" he cried.

"I'm sure I don't know," she said, sarcastically.
"But when I find a young gentleman hiding away a
green coat, slashed with gold, and gold epaulettes, I
conclude that we are going to have some private
theatricals."

He had started violently at the words, but his
sister's remarks gave him the clue.

"Oh, 'William Tell!'" he said, "I suppose we can't
put it on the stage before Christmas!"

"Certainly not. And you are William Tell. You'll
want a good deal of practice with the bow and arrow,
before you can hit that apple, I think!"

"Oh! we won't mind that!" said Myles uneasily.
"Bows and arrows are out of date now!"

"Yes! A couple of six-chambered revolvers, silver-
chased, would be more up-to-date, wouldn't they?"

He arose suddenly, and would have broken out into
an angry remonstrance, but Agnes had bent down her
face close to his, and he saw that her eyes were swim-
ming with tears as she said:

"Oh, Mylie, Mylie, what is it all? What is it all?
Poor father will turn against you; and everybody

A STORY OF '67 31

will turn against you; and you'll go out and be shot,
or arrested, and then — then, O my God, what shall
I do?"

The young man was staggered by this appeal —
much more moved than he would have been by his
father's passionate anger; but, he decided, in a mo-
ment, that his only chance was to pass it off lightly.

"And so that's how pantomimes end," he said.
"How little girls' fancies run away with them. War,
and bloodshed, and gaols and scaffolds! Would it
not be well, Agnes, to wait a little, and not be inflam-
ing those pretty blue eyes for nothing? When I am
hanged, I'll let you cry your fill, but not now, Aggie,
not now!"

"It won't do, Mylie, it won't do," said the girl sob-
bing, "there's something awful going to happen, I
know it! I know it! And 'twill happen to you;
and what shall I do? what shall 1 do? "

"There now! there now!" said her brother sooth-
ingly, drawing her head close to his own, "nothing
will happen, dear, but what is best for Ireland, and
us all. However," he said gaily, "if you like, I'll
follow father's advice, become a lawyer, get on the
bench, and hang every poor chap that has a genuine
love for Ireland — "

She put her hand on his mouth.

"No! no! no!" she said, "but is there no other
way? Can't you escape some way? You know
Father James was here with Pap a long time last
night; and they were talking together, and they were
very solemn; and whenever I went into the room,
they began to talk about the election and the weather.
But I heard Father James say once, as I drew open
the door : ' Every name is up at the Castle ! ' and when

32 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

he was going away at eleven o'clock, he said, on the
stairs: 'Don't force him! Don't oppose him! but
try and bend his thoughts in another direction?'"

"I see! That's the secret of my promotion to silk at
the bar. Heigho! How these good people do settle
the affairs of us youngsters, to be sure! But, 'every
name is up at the Castle.' Did he give any authority;
for that's generally guesswork, you know? The
priests want to frighten away all the young men from
allegiance to their Country."

"He said no more!" said Agnes dubiously. "But,
Mylie, it's all very well about love of country, and
patriotism, but what about our holy faith? Can we
turn our backs on that?"

"I'm not a bad Catholic!" he said, and for the
first time he appeared offended with his little sister;
"I have never been absent from Mass; I have never
touched meat on a Friday, or a Fast-day; I say my
prayers every night and morning! What more?"

"Mother would say: Mylie, what about Confession?
What about Holy Communion? You, who were never
absent a month from Confession — "

"Aggie, don't! For God's sake, leave me alone
now. Little girls don't understand these things.
These things are for men! Run awaj', and get the
Union Jack to hang out this afternoon, when our new
member will be chaired; and be sure to have your
nicest little lace handkerchief to flutter over the
mimber's head. I suppose poor old Pap will be with
the scoundrel; and he'll expect to see you."

"Yes!" said Agnes tauntingly, "and, of course,
you'll be there? "

"I guess not!" he said jauntily, "or I might be
tempted to put a bullet through the fellow; I am quite

A STORY OF '67 33

sure, if poor Kickham came into my mind at the
time, I'd do something that would be unpleasant!"

"So you won't come?"

"No! Not even for you, Aggie!"

"But if I bring Mary?"

"What Mary?"

"There's only one Mary in the world just now!"

"Oh!" he said. She ran away laughing, although
her heart was heavy enough. And he leaned his
head back against the chair; and thought a good deal.
Did he waver?

Not for an instant! But that allusion to the Sacra-
ments, and the ban of the Church rankled in his mind.
He would gladly give his life for Ireland; but to die
unshriven and unanointed was a thought he could not
bear. Would it not mean separation for ever from that
mother he adored? The thought was maddening.

In the graveyard behind the Catholic Church that
same evening between seven and eight o'clock, Myles
Cogan sat upon his mother's grave. The setting sun
sent its level beams in between the lattice work of the
giant beeches that lined the western wall, and threw
its dappled shadows on the wall at the other side.
A strong odour of hemlock filled the air, for the grave-
yard was literally white with the blossoms of the weed
that grew four or five feet high in the rank soil. The
black wooden belfry with its curious triangular top
showed dark against the green and gold of the meadow
beyond; the windows of the galleries in the old Church
looked down upon the places of the dead.

Myles was buried in deep thought, as he sat there
above the ashes of his beloved mother. She had died
whilst he was yet a boy; but her love, discriminate
and wise; her deep, heartfelt, trustful religion, and
her intense devotion to her country had made a lasting
impression on the boy, — an impression that never
entirely faded. He sought the lonely place to be out
of the way of the crowds that filled the streets; and
to avoid witnessing what he considered a nation's
humiliation. His own work was to come after — the
work of pulling down and destroying for ever the
fabric of that hated government, of which this man
was a servile tool. He had a certain amount of con-
tempt for the man himself as a -parvenu and an upstart,

A STORY OF '67 35

who had forced himself into the front ranks of his
profession; but he hated him because he thought he
was making the people more servile than ever; and
his hate rose into wrath, when he thought of this glib
lawyer surrounded by a degraded people, and receiving
their adulations, whilst Charles Kickham, the gentle
poet, the accomplished scholar, the faithful and loving
delineator of his country, was rotting out his life,
deaf and blind, amongst the scum of the English
population. This moment, he thought, Kickham is
lying awake in his cell at Millbank, having been in
bed since five o'clock this lovely summer evening
according to one of the most hateful prison rules.
What is he thinking of? Of the sun setting on Slieve-
namon, of the golden gorse climbing up the hills, and
filling the valleys of Tipperary; of the wild flowers
in the deep meadows along the banks of the stately
Suir, of the peasants resting after their daily toil;
of the blue smoke curling up from the thatched cot-
tages, of the boys and girls at the evening dance in
the village; of the Sainted Irish dead sleeping beneath
the hawthorn and ivy in many a ruined Abbey. And
hark! here is the muffled tread of the English warder,
who pulls back every quarter hour the iron slip outside
his cell, and peers through to see that his Irish felon
is safe. And hark!

Over and through the trees, and borne on the soft
evening breezes, come the tumult and noise, the frantic
cheering and yelling of the streets. He knew what it
meant. They are chairing the member. They have
unyoked the horses from the waggonnette, and are
pulling the carriage, willing and craven hirelings,
along the thoroughfares. Bands are playing dis-
cordantly in front; the masses of the people are rolling

36 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

wildly around; the windows are filled with girls and
women, who wave their handkerchiefs and waft their
smiles towards the bland and triumphant lawyer.
The chief men of the town stand on the waggonnette
beside the member. They are his Committee, who
have worked, night and day, for his return. Chief
amongst them, and conspicuous by his white shirt front
and his well-cut cloth coat, is Dan Cogan, who knows
that he has already the magic letters J. P. attached to
his name. As they approach a certain corner house,
the proprietor, a grocer, surrounded by his interesting
family, opens his window, and gently, ever so gently,
lets down a glass of wine at the end of a fishing-rod.
The member accepts it, and the vast crowd cheer
madly. The member replaces the empty glass, and
smiles, oh! such a killing smile, at the grocer's wife
and daughters. The crowd grow mad with enthu-
siasm. Dan Cogan is savage with envy and regret that
he never thought of such a compliment. What a
pretty picture Agnes Cogan would be under similar
circumstances! The procession rounds another cor-
ner. A bonfire is blazing. The procession pauses;
and a hideous effigy of the defeated candidate, satu-
rated with petroleum, is flung into the flames. There
is riotous laughter and applause. Slowly, the proces-
sion passes up the main street. Everywhere, open
windows, fair ladies, sweet, young children, everywhere
smiles and cheers and adulations; but lo!

In the midst of red flags and Union Jacks, an ominous
sign appears. From the top windows of a large house,
shuttered and with drawn blinds from base to attic,
droops an enormous black flag. The breeze is too weak
to lift it; and there it hangs, a dead and lifeless sign,
emphasized by a white skull and crossbones, that

A STORY OF '67 37

add to its ghastly significance. The cheering suddenly
ceases, and there are angry growls. The member
looks upward, points to the ghastly symbol, and
smiles. But there is one man, on whom the outrage
falls with as much terror as if the whole front of the
house was about to bend forward and annihilate them;
for beneath, above the shop-door, appears in gold
letters, beneath glass shades, the name, D. Cogan.

VI

When the noise from the streets had ceased, and
Myles Cogan could fairly conclude that the mob had
dispersed, and the member and his followers were at
dinner, the young man rose up, replaced in his pocket
the book he was reading, clambered over the church-
yard wall, thus avoiding the street, passed through the
big meadow, emerged on the main street through a
side lane, and made his way rapidly to where another
lane broke the line of houses on the main thoroughfare.
A policeman was standing near the entrance to the
lane. Groups of idlers were scattered here and there.
A drunken fellow detached himself from one of these
groups, and staggering towards Myles, attempted to
assault him.

"You d — d young puppy," he said, "how dar' you
insult our member?"

The other groups broke up, and seemed disposed to
follow the fellow's example; and the constable said:

"You had better make for home, Mr. Cogan. There
is some ugly temper abroad tonight!"

Quite puzzled, Myles slipped quietly up along the
lane; and looking around to see that he was not fol-
lowed, he plunged under a narrow archway, entered
a low cabin, passed through, and into an immense
livery stable, that fronted another street.

Here, a young man was polishing harness. He
touched his cap to Myles, who seemed to take no

A STORY OF '67 39

further notice of him, but clambered up a rude ladder,
and was in the midst of his comrades.

Instead of the usual formal salutations he was
received this night with smiles and smothered laughter,
which puzzled him not a little. But he was in a pretty
savage mood, and calling the men together, after putting
the usual questions about the secret drillings that were
going on all round the town, etc., he uttered, in a kind
of suppressed fury, his meditations in the church-yard.

Whenever he spoke in this manner, the men forgot
their usual familiarity, and were stricken into silence
by the furious eloquence that broke from the lips of
their young leader. He was no longer their boy-
captain, daring, enthusiastic, energetic; but he took
on all the tones of a passionate patriotism, breathing
infinite pity for all who had fallen in the glorious fight
for freedom, and vengeance on all who had contributed
to that fall. He broke into snatches of wild Gaelic
poetry, now sinking his voice into a wail of despair,
now lifting it in accents of unmeasured hope; and the
men said in their hearts:

"No hand but one would hang that black flag out of
his father's house tonight!"

Then suddenly repressing his enthusisam, he came
down to cold particulars, and asked:

"Were those goods from Cork safely placed last
night?"

"Begor, they wor," said Murty Linehan. "They
won't come to life again till they're wanted."

"Who brought them from the station?"

"Jem Mooney, of course, — Mooney, the carrier."

"I understood," said Myles, sternly, "that it was
Crowley, and not Mooney, who was to bring them.
Were not these my orders?"

40 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Begor, they wor, Captain; but sure Crowley was
a worse case than Mooney. Mooney could talk, but
he couldn't walk. But, begor, Crowley could do
nayther."

"Nice fellows to have the lives of men, like you, in
their hands!" said Myles. "But the goods are safe!"

"Faith, they are! and no one likely to disturb them
without ordhers," said Murty.

There was a suppressed laugh, that meant some-
thing, and Myles said curtly:

"What happened?"

"Wisha, not much," said Murty, "but before we
buried the corp', we thought there should be no mourn-
ers, so I wint ahead laving the coffin to these bouchals.
And lo and behold you; jest as I thought, I heard
the sound of voices, and begor! 'twasn't keening they
wor, but joking like mad; and sure enough there were
two of the indepindent electors of the ould, ancient
borough, sitting on a tomb-stone and counting the
notes for all they were worth. Thin, they got sarious,
and thin, they begin to quarrel. 'I'll settle the dis-
pute soon, my bouchals,' ses I, and with that I slipped
away, and got a good big sheet and tied and pinned it
around me, and stole up behind thim. 'He said I
was to get half,' said Ned Tuohy. 'Half what?' said
Collar the Swag. 'Half the money?' said Ned,
'that ould Hinnessy said would be here.' I pushed a
bit nearer and stood over them. 'I was promised
twinty,' says Ned Tuohy, 'and I must get them.'
'He said we wor to go fair halves,' said Collar and
Swag. And begor, they'd have come to blows soon if
I didn't put in my arram, betune them. Pil-a-miloo!
But Cole Ahern's best greyhound couldn't bate them.
They let a screech out o' them that should wake the

A STORY OF '67 41

dead; and Ned fell over the wall into the meadow, and
Collar jumped the wall into the saw-yard, though begor
in his right sinses he could no more jump a straw than
Bill Lehane!"

"But the notes! Murty? Where are the notes?"
"Oh — h," said Murty, solemnly, "av coorse, they
wint back to the 'mimber.' He has a lot of expinses,

poor man

Myles, who was always desperately in earnest,
turned the conversation.

"You saw the hussars these days, marching up and
down the town?"

"Begor, we did," said Murty, who was in a very
jocular mood, "and purty little fellows they'd be at
an evening tay-party. It was the greatest wandher
to me how they held up their swords at all, at all; but
sure they couldn't, only they laned them against their
showlders."

"Do you think our pikes would reach them before
they could strike?" said Myles.

"Yerra, the head of a pike would be through their
carcass, before they could lift their sabres!" said
another warrior. "But I'm afraid the hatchet would
be no use now, because they have put chains, instead
of leather, on their bridles."

"Don't be talking nonsense, men," said James
Halpin, the schoolmaster, breaking in angrily on the
debate. "I saw these men, too, and if they are boys,
they're pretty stalwart fellows; and they have been
drilled and drilled — "

"Begor, if drilling wor any use," said Murty, break-
ing in, "we have enough of it ourselves. Divil such
a drill-master as yourself, Mr. Halpin, in the whole
British army!"

42 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Let us stop this nonsense, Sir," said the teacher,
addressing Myles, respectfully. "If our movement is
to come to anything, we must look before us, and make
our calculations. Just imagine a lot of our poor fel-
lows with pikes and spades in their hands, facing first
a battery of artillery, with its shells and grape and
canister; and then, when half of our men have been
swept away, imagine a troop of these dragoons, with
their splendid horses swooping down on the disordered
ranks, drawing their pistols from their holsters, firing
right and left, into our ranks, and then sabring the
rest with all the merciless fury of British soldiers!
Let us face the truth, Sir," he continued, "and don't
let us deceive ourselves fatally!"

The little speech threw a damper on their spirits,
until one said:

"But supposing that half these men were on our side,
and supposing they fired over our heads — "

"And then, you ran over and kissed them, like
Frenchmen," said Halpin. "What d — d rot! Why,
we are talking like so many fools, who don't seem to
know what difference there is between a shell and an
old kettle!"

"There's a great deal in what Mr. Halpin says,"
said Myles, thoughtfully, although he was always
displeased when anything was said to depress these
poor fellows. "Now, we must look before us, and
talk the matter over, and realise what actual warfare
is like. I have got some military maps of Napoleon's
battles, — Areola, Lodi, Marengo, and Austerlitz. We
must study those carefully, and try and see what actual
war is. It is no child's play; but, where there is
truth and courage and brotherhood, and an invincible
determination to fight the thing out to victory or

A STORY OF '67 43

death, all will be right ! There may be disappointment
and suffering, but there can be no defeat to brave
men!"

Words that were welcomed with suppressed cheers,
whilst some of the men scowled at Halpin, as if he
were a traitor.

Myles Cogan slipped away quietly, and passing
down through some obscure lanes, he found himself
on the great bridge that spans the noble river which
divides the town in two. The river was rather low
and underfed now after the great summer heats; and
he looked at it, and at every ripple on its broad bosom,
with a certain kind of tenderness, when he heard a
footstep behind him, and an old woman, who was
passing by, said:

"They're afther hunting the town for you, Masther
Mylie. You're wanting over at the house. Miss
Agnes is looking everywhere for you!"

"For me? What's the matter?" he said.

"Wisha! How could the likes of me know?" the
old woman replied, "but I heard the people saying
that Miss Agnes was looking everywhere for you."

"All-right! Good-night, Nellie!"

"Good-night, Masther Mylie! And God keep you,
and God preserve you to your counthry!"

VII

When he entered the hall, the lights still burning,
and the deep silence, showed that something unusual
had taken place. He went into the breakfast parlour
at the left, and touched the bell. The servant appeared;
and he asked if Miss Agnes had retired. He was afraid
to say: "Father!" No! Miss Agnes had not retired.
She would call her.

Presently, Agnes came down stairs, her eyes swollen
from weeping, and without looking at her brother, she
sank into a chair, saying:

"Mylie! oh, Mylie!"

He walked up and down the room, afraid to ask
any questions; yet more afraid of the doubt and uncer-
tainty that surrounded him. At last he stood over
his sister, and said:

"Something has happened, Agnes! What is it?
Anything wrong with father?"

She moaned helplessly for a few seconds, and then
said:

"Dying!"

"Father dying! Where? How? What has hap-
pened?"

But she wouldn't reply.

He left her, and went upstairs. The physician was
there and some nurse from town. Myles shook
hands with him, and instantly turned towards the
bed.

A STORY OF '67 45

His father lay on his back, breathing heavily. His
face was flushed. He was quite unconscious.

Myles looked down earnestly for a few moments.
Then he said to the doctor:

"A fit of some kind?"

"Yes! Apoplectic seizure!"

"How did it occur? Where?"

"In the town-house. Upstairs!"

"The town-house? Why, 'twas locked up all the
evening. What could have taken him there?"

"Don't know. Father James is in the drawing-
room downstairs. He saw all: I was called here!"

"Is father's condition serious?" said Myles, after
a pause.

"Hopeless!" said the doctor. "An artery, one of
the small ones, is ruptured in the brain. There is
much effusion of blood. He cannot live till morning."

"You have done everything that could be done?"

"Everything!"

"And, of course, there is no use in summoning any
one else!"

"There will be no time!"

Myles shuddered, and went out. He tried to recall
his last interview with his father. He recalled with
pleasure the fact, that they had parted amicably, and
that he had not formally disobeyed. He entered the
drawing-room. Father James was walking up and
down, restless and uneasy. Myles said:

"This is a terrible affair! What can have happened?
I understood that Father was in the waggonnette with
Serjeant Holloway!"

The priest eyed him keenly for a few seconds. He
thought he was prevaricating. But Myles met his
eye firmly, and the priest said:

46 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Sit down!" And then: "You know nothing of
this affair?"

"What affair? I'm completely mystified. I can-
not get an explanation from anyone."

"They don't wish to hurt your feelings. Tell me
briefly, what do 3'ou know of the black flag that was
hung out of your windows during the procession?"

"This is the first I heard of it. Black flag? Did
anyone dare to offer such a mean outrage?"

"Yes! Amidst all the bunting, absurd and servile
I know, a black flag, with skull and cross-bones, was
drooping down from the top windows of No. 167. It
has killed your father. He got away from the waggon-
nette, you can imagine in what a state; broke in the
wicket at the rear of the garden, found the kitchen
door wide open, tore madly upstairs, and there was
found in a fit, his hand on the bamboo rod to which
the heavy flag was nailed, and which protruded through
the window."

Myles was silent with anger at the outrage, with
shame for the family honour; with bitter sorrow, that,
in all human probability, his father might have thought
that his was the hand that offered such a gratuitous
insult. Then he said, wiping the beads of shame from
his forehead:

"I presume I am set down as the author of this
outrage? That is human opinion, always erroneous
and malignant, which I can afford to despise. But,
0 father, father! could j'ou have thought that it was
I ?"

He broke down in a paroxysm of tears. The priest
felt for him.

"Myles!" he said gently, "you have taken a mighty
load off my mind. Everyone thinks it was you. And

A STORY OF '67 47

yet I said to more than one — ' Myles Cogan couldn't
do such a cowardly and mean act. We know his
feelings; but that was a low proceeding, and he had
nothing to do with it!'"

Myles stretched out his hand, and grasped the
priest's.

"I swear before God and you that I had neither
hand, act, or part in that affair; nor have I the slight-
est suspicion who is guilty of it. A deadly enemy,
I'm sure!"

"/ never suspected you, Myles!" said the priest, kindly,
"but you see, my boy, into what dangers your present
associations lead you. Yes, I know," he continued,
as Myles made a gesture of appeal, "you don't like me
to speak of the subject, but, perhaps, terrible as your
poor father's loss is now to you, and Agnes, and to
us all, has it not a hidden grace, — a grace of warning
to you to pause, and pause again, on the road to ruin?
You see now how treacherous your associates are!"

"I don't believe for a moment that it was any of
our men did it. They are incapable of such a thing.
Stop! I have it. They chased away last night some
scoundrels who were pocketing or rather fighting for
bribes in the churchyard; and this is their revenge, —
just what such fellows are capable of doing. No Fenian
ever did it. But leave it to me now. I shall soon
know who did it, and it will be the sorriest day he ever
saw!"

"There — revenge and hatred! Everything more
anti-Christian than another. How in the world,
Myles Cogan, did you spring from such parents?"

"It was my mother taught me to love Ireland,"
said Myles. "Probably, I would be a tippler, and
night-walker, but for that."

48 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Surely, you don't mean," said the priest, "that
a man must be sworn in an illicit organisation, con-
demned by the Church, in order to avoid vice and
crime?"

"You know us all, Father," said Myles. "Can
you point to a man amongst us, who is not leading a
cleanly and honourable life? Yes," he continued,
forgetting himself, "whatever be our folly or our faults,
believe me there is some consecrating power in patriot-
ism that burns up all baser passions. 'Tis the holy
fire that consumes all grossness and baseness in men."

"Yes! Patriotism well-directed," said the priest,
"and sanctioned by reason and religion; not — but
we are irreverent in discussing such subjects now in
the presence of the dying. But — one question more
to set my mind at rest, and help me to defend you."

"I need no defence. Father James," said the young
man, proudly. "My conscience absolves me. That is
enough."

"Very well. But you can have no objection to tell
me where you were when the outrage on your father
was committed."

"Not the least. I was praying and reading, alter-
nately. I was sitting on my mother's grave!"

"Come upstairs, now!" said the priest.

VIII

James Halpin was one of those silent enthusiasts
whom Ireland produces from time to time, just to
show that the breed of strong men has not altogether
perished. So far as his outer life was concerned, he
was, to human observation, a poor, rather weary, and
tired schoolmaster, without much hope of ever reach-
ing the summits of life. And yet, his spirit soared to
higher Alps than those which the ordinary successful
tourist trod, for he walked with spirits, — the spirits
of the immortal dead, and the spirit-creatures of his
own imagination. During his daily tasks in school,
he laboured gently and perseveringly in training these
young minds and helping them up the steep paths of
knowledge. He was hardly popular. He was feared,
not from any severity or practical discipline, but from
a certain aloofness, or coldness, which never permitted
him to come down to their level, or show what was
human in him. Yet, if any close observer had watched
him, as he cast his eyes along the rows of boys in read-
ing classes, and thought, what splendid material
is here, could it be worked! or, as he bent down over the
paper, where some promising lad was working out a
difficult problem, he would have seen that this grave
man had not lost all interest in life; but would like
to touch these young lives to finer issues than mere
bread-winning, or wife-hunting, or honour-seeking, if
he could. Yet, strange to say, whenever he came

•50 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

down to their level, and talked to them familiarly,
he always felt as if he had lost something, and he
went away with a certain self-loathing, as of one who
had descended from his own sphere.

But at night, in the humble room which he rented
in a back street, he gave himself up to dreams, and
such dreams. Dreams of a bygone, long-lost Ireland,
when her sons were clad in coats of mail, wore bur-
nished helmets, and shining steel armour over saffron
tunics, and her ladies were clad in shimmering silk,
and wore gold fillets in their hair, and sandals shining
with silver clasps and pearls. Dreams of old abbeys
with their vast choirs of monks, and vaster multitudes
of students who thronged here from Europe to drink
at this perennial fount of learning. Dreams of ancient
splendours, when Kings sat in their halls, their queens
beside them; and knights and warriors felt them-
selves enkindled by ancient sagas sung by long-bearded
bards, and the deeds of ancient prowess told by Sena-
chies. Dreams of haunted castles by the sea; and
hillsides, where fairies danced in the moonlight, and
witches practised their horrid spells; and the spirits
of the dead arose, and carried on their mimic battles
at midnight; and mighty chieftains came out from
their graves in the moonlit abbeys, and walked over
battle-fields, the very names of which are forgotten.
Dreams of more sombre times, when the people were
harried and driven from post to post, by mail-clad
warriors from over the sea; and kings had to seek
shelter in mountain cabins, and beg their bread from
wayfarers like themselves. Dreams of midnight masses
held in lonely forests, or in the deep recesses of the
mountain, with sentinels all round to watch if a speck
of the dreaded "red" of trooper or yeoman could be

A STORY OF '67 SI

seen afar. Dreams of a land of ghosts and shadows, of
strong giants, gaunt like wolves from hunger, with
wolfish hunger in their eyes; of mothers, stilling their
children's gnawing pain by snatches of old ditties or
scraps of stories from a certain golden age; of priests
bending down and kneeling in the snow to anoint the
famine and fever-stricken multitudes; of a people
flying from destruction to destruction; from a land
of famine and terror to the rotten ships that were to
cast them into the sea, or on an unfriendly land.
Dreams of scaffolds and pitch-caps, of patriots flying
in the hour of a nation's defeat to the hills and fast-
nesses of the land; of brave women, refusing enormous
bribes, of base men, betraying their captains and
leaders. Dreams of English prisons with all their
horrors, lighted only by the heroism that shone like
a halo around the cropped heads and the garments
of shame which English law put upon Irish patriots.
And dreams, and these recurred the oftenest, of the
Ireland, for whom all this was patiently endured —
that mysterious motherland, who, with all her weight
of woes upon her, had j'et the power to sway the
mightiest minds to which she had given birth, even
though they were of alien and hostile blood, and to
inspire poet and orator and patriot wath such a love
for her, that they walked to the scaffold as if to a bridal
altar; and gave up their lives as calmly as Isaac bent
beneath the sacrificial knife of his father. And what
was this mysterious motherland, this veiled and clois-
tered queen, who commanded such devotion, such
loyalty, such passionate and reverential homage from
her sons? And the eyes of the solitary went out and
wandered over heath-clad mountains, which the winter
torrents seamed yellow with their fierce embraces;

52 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

over wet fields, which the skirts of the rain-clouds were
ever sweeping, and leaving sodden and sunken with
their deluges; over the lonely moorlands, dark even
on a summer day from the reflection of the black bogs
beneath on the gloomy clouds above, where the heron
and the moor hen have their abodes, and the shy
canabhan waves its little flag of white over peat-pits
sunk in pools of stagnant water, along the white roads
that seem to go everywhere and nowhere, now into
deep sombre valleys, and anon climbing white and
dusty over treeless hills; across the lakelands, sorrow-
ful in their very beauty, and down to the eternal seas
that chafe the cliffs, and moan for ever their lonely
dirges over a land, ancient as the earth itself, and
burthened with all the sorrows of a fallen and irre-
deemable world. And along the track of his fancies,
and accompanying them with their own wild and
unearthly music, went the winds of Ireland, with their
burden of melancholy and sorrow, wailing out their
breath where the heather dies and the red sandstone
from which the cairns of kings are made, begins;
or along the lonely lake shore, where some old ruin
looks down, and counts the centuries since its shadow
first fell in the gloomy waters beneath.

And all this the lonely watcher saw, as the smoke
curled upwards through the chimney, and the red
cinders fell beneath the bars.

It was the evening of the day on which Dan Cogan
was buried. He had been interred with all honours.
High-Mass had been sung over his remains, and an
immense cavalcade had accompanied them to the local
churchyard. It was not usual, but James Halpin
thought it a kind of duty to call upon his chief. He
will be lonely, he thought, over there in that big house;

A STORY OF '67 53

and I shall waive ceremony, and call upon him. He
had a great love for Myles, — for this big strong youth,
with the noble figure and the mobile face. And he
felt that Myles was only his own pupil. Was it not
he, a poor assistant schoolmaster, who had indoctri-
nated this young Celt with his own ideas, and then
spurred him on to action?

He passed along the streets, still shuttered and in
mourning, crossed the bridge, and passed along the
suburb, beyond which Millbank, a fine square house,
looked down upon the river. His hand was on the
latch of the little iron gate that led into the lawn,
when a sudden thought struck him: Shall I be wel-
come? or shall I be an intruder? For alas! he knew
well that in this little town as elsewhere in Ireland,
there were class-distinctions, little grades and castes,
mounting up from the lowest strata to the highest, and
cut away from one another by some rigid legislation,
which was never named, and never questioned. The
popular saying: that twopence half-penny did not
know twopence! was literally true; and the young
schoolmaster paused for a moment to ask would such
a visit, even of condolence, be acceptable? And then,
there was a j'oung ladj'', whom he had met, once or
twice, in her brother's company; and she had smiled
on him. It was wonderful, very wonderful to a young
man who had the deep consciousness that he was only
a schoolmaster.

"Nonsense!" he said at last to himself, "Myles
Cogan is a man and a comrade. I know him from
his hair to his heel!"

He crossed the lawn and knocked. The little serv-
ant opened the door, and looked at him questioningly.

"Is Mr. Cogan at home? "

54 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"No!" she said, holding the door half-shut. "He
went out with Father James MacCarthy a half-hour
ago!"

She was wondering what this schoolmaster wanted
with her master.

"And he's not likely to return soon?"

"We don't expect him home before ten," she said.
"He seldom comes in before ten."

"Well, then, would you kindly say that Mr. Halpin
called. 'Tis not a matter of business, but just a visit
of sympathy."

The maid was turning over the pretty phrase in her
mind, and wondering what she was to say, when the
parlour door opened, and Agnes Cogan came out.
She was in deep mourning, emphasized with much
crape, and her eyes were yet stained from weeping, but
she held out her hand cordially, and said:

"Myles will be so sorry, Mr. Halpin. But, would
you come in for a moment?"

He blushed and stammered something; but she
held the door open, as if entreating him to enter; and
with a beating heart he went into the hall, and laid
down his hat and cane. She opened the parlour door,
and ushered him in. Here, to his horror, was another
young lady, who rose as he entered, and bowed rather
stiffly, when Agnes said:

"Miss Carleton, Mr. Halpin!"

He bowed, looked away from the girls, and sat down.
Then, by a tremendous effort, he drew himself together
and said:

"I just called to pay a visit of ceremony to Mr.
Cogan. I am greatly grieved by all that has happened."

Then tears burst forth afresh from the eyes of Agnes.
Miss Carleton looked coldly through the window.

A STORY OF '67 55

"Myles went out with Father MacCarthy just after
tea," said Agnes. "I dare say he will remain away
until bedtime. They have always a good many things
to say to each other."

"Then you will promise to come up tomorrow?"
said Miss Carleton, rising, and looking very stately.

"If at all possible!" said Agnes. "But must you
go, Mary?"

"Yes! Papa will be waiting dinner for me. Good-
night, dear!"

She kissed the girl's forehead, and Halpin sprang
to the door, and opened it.

"Thank — yaw!" she said.

He remained a few moments after; and then took
his leave. He had too large a soul to resent; but it
was a pained spirit that crossed the bridge.

IX

Mary Carleton was the only daughter of a solic-
itor in the town. The profession at once raised the
family to the rank of gentry; and as such, they were
not supposed to be on social terms with mere shop-
keepers, no matter how wealthy. Of course, in busi-
ness matters, old Edward Carleton was on terms not
only of affability, but even of confidential friendship
with all classes. He transacted their business, took
their cheques, called them by their Christian names,
attended committee-meetings with them; but, just
outside his office, a terrible line was drawn, and there
was no passing that. The best of his clients was never
seen at his dining-table; and the ladies of the family
knew no one below their own circle. Mrs. Carleton
and her daughter did not recognize the wives and
daughters of the clients who were helping them to wear
those silks and jewels, which were a surprise even to
wealthy aristocrats in the neighbourhood.

Hence, between Dan Cogan's family and Edward
Carleton's there was no intimacy whatsoever. But it
happened, much to the disgust of the latter, that Dan
Cogan had sent his only daughter, Agnes, to the very
same Convent in England where Mary Carleton was
studying. It was an utter breach of propriety; but
Dan was a wealthy man, and thought nothing of pay-
ing eighty pounds a year for his daughter's education;
and so Agnes Cogan and Mary Carleton were brought
together; and, like good Irish girls, struck up a friend-

A STORY OF '67 57

ship, which they knew would be discountenanced at
home. But, on their holidays, and especially after
they had left school, the old barriers were erected; and
Mrs. Carleton had to read her daughter a severe
lecture on the proprieties before the latter relinquished
her secret hope of making Agnes Cogan a life-friend.
Besides, Agnes, as we have seen, had an idol, and the
incense she offered him was wafted sometimes towards
her school-companion. 'In secret places on the convent
grounds, Agnes read for her companion certain letters
from her idol; and then little strange comments went
back to Millbank; and then little scraps of poetry
would return; and, altogether, Mary Carleton did
conceive an interest in Myles Cogan. And when she
came home finally in all the full bloom and glory of
young womanhood, and with a certain lofty ideal,
physical and moral, of a hero before her mind, she
glanced from her prayer-book one Sunday at Mass,
and realised that Myles Cogan, the handsome, sol-
dierly young rebel, met, and more than met, all her
heart's demands. And he? Well, there also a little
flame had been enkindled; but he had tried to ex-
tinguish it by saying, No hope so high! and then the
whiter flame of patriotism had well nigh annihilated
the sudden flame of love.

But, besides, there was no passing further on that
road. One Sunday, during the holidays, Mary Carle-
ton, whilst her mother was talking to the parish priest,
did manage to exchange a few words with Agnes
Cogan. The priest departed. Mrs. Carleton came
up towards the girls, stared at Agnes in a stony manner,
and bade her daughter come along. Then, there was
a certain lecture, and some tears; and all intercourse
between the girls was broken off, until the sad event

58 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

of Dan Cogan's death. Then, because Dan Cogan
had been noticed somewhat by the "Member," for
whom Carleton was conducting agent, Mary had been
allowed, as a great favour, to pay a visit of condolence
to her former friend; but the acquaintance was to
terminate there.

It was after ten o'clock when Myles reached his
home that evening. It was always understood that
his sister and the servants should not remain up for
him. The lamp was lighted on the parlour table;
and beside it was the glass of milk and the biscuits that
made his frugal supper. He lingered as usual at the
garden-gate, leaning over it, and listening to the mur-
mur of the river, as it stole over the pebbles beneath
him. He was pondering many things; and just then
he was much disturbed in thought after his interview
with the priest. The latter had spoken very plainly
to the young idealist. He had used some expressions
that rankled in memory, "profitless effusion of blood,"
"dragging ignorant men to doom," "playing into the
hands of foreign revolutionaries," "under the ban and
excommunication of the Church," etc. They made
him uneasy, for he had nothing reasonable to oppose
to them, — nothing but his passionate enthusiasm.
He paused, reasoned, and was turning away irresolute,
when a stranger crossed the road, and accosted him.

He was about to make some civil excuse when the
stranger uttered a word. Then the whole attitude of
Myles Cogan changed. He doffed his hat, shook the
hand of the stranger warmly, and led the way to the
house.

"I have to apologise. Colonel," he said. "But
my servants do not remain up so late. But I can give
you a cigar and a glass."

A STORY OF '67 59

"Nothing better!" said the stranger, as Myles
placed the decanter on the table. "But," he pushed
the decanter gently aside, "business first. You are
Head Centre here?"

"Yes!" said Myles, a little troubled at the court-
martial air the stranger assumed.

"Then let me tell you that your business is d — d
badly done!"

He stopped for a moment, eyeing the young man
closely.

"I called in here by an evening train from Killarney;
I just wanted to see how things were going so that I
could report across the water. I found my way to your
fellows that were drilling as easy as to the nearest
public-house. I might have been a spy, or a detec-
tive. The fellows didn't seem to mind. Everything
was open as daylight. I asked the name of the Cap-
tain of division. Halpin. Where's Halpin? Or who's
Halpin? Or, what's Halpin? A half-blind school-
master, who knows no more about drill than a cowboy.
I asked, where are your arms? In garrets, in grave-
yards, in cow-houses — everywhere, but in the hands
of men. I put a few military questions, that would
be promptly answered by the rawest recruit in the
States. They knew nothing. And I want to ask you:
Is this a specimen of the 'highly-organised and thor-
oughly-drilled, and efficiently-armed force,' that is to
spring to action the moment the Irish-American officers
land in Queenstown?"

Myles was struck dumb; and leaned his head on his
hands. The charge was true and untrue. He could
not deny; he could not refute. He tried a feeble
excuse.

"Everyone knew the Fenians were being drilled.

60 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

There was little concealment. The arms were all
right and ready for action; but, of course, the men,
for obvious reasons, could not practise ball-firing. But
they were drilled according to the latest manuals from
America; and Hal pin, although but a schoolmaster,
was one of the keenest minds in Ireland."

"I have gone through Kerry," said the officer, as if
speaking to himself, "and 'tis the same story every-
where. No artillery, little ammunition, no experi-
ence, no practice; cobblers and schoolmasters —
captains and drill masters; and I am asked to bring
over brave men here to head such a disorganised mass,
and put my own and their necks into English halters.
By G— I'll think twice about it."

He drew over the decanter; and lit a cigar.

"But, by heavens," he said, "there's grit in the
country still. Over there, whilst I was hectoring and
cursing these fellows, their sentries, as they called them,
haled in two little chaps, who were playing spies, they
said. They were little fellows about twelve or four-
teen. They were b'^dly frightened, when I challenged
them. No, they v/eren't spies; but they wanted to
join the Irish Republican Brotherhood, as drummers
or bandboys. I insisted they were spies, and that
they would inform the government. 'By Jove!' the
oldest little chap said promptly, 'you lie! I don't
know who you are; but we're as good Irishmen as you.'
I told them I could not risk the necks of so many men
for the sake of two over-curious boys; and I told them
they should die. The little chap blubbered a little;
but the big chap rubbed his hands on his little pants,
and defied me. I stepped back, and drew my revolver.
The men thought I meant something; and begged me
not to hurt them. I told the boys to kneel down and

A STORY OF '67 61

say their prayers They knelt. ' Now, stand up,' I said,
'and prepare to die. It is the fate of spies the wide
world over.' 'I tell you again,' said the little fellow,
'that you're a liar, if you were a Colonel or a General
ten times over.' I advanced, holding the revolver
steady between his eyes. He never blenched. I came
up close, and pressed the mouth of the pistol on his
left temple. He shut his eyes, the brave little beggar,
but never cried, nor whimpered. I let the muzzle
fall. 'What's your name, boy?' 'I won't tell you,'
he said. 'You're a British spy yourself.' 'What's
his name?' I said to the men. 'Philip Shea,' they
said. 'Then Philip Shea, Colonel Costelloe hereby
nominates j'ou lieutenant in this detachment of the
Irish Revolutionary forces.' The fellow looked a man
on the instant. I suppose he'll be hanged some day.
But, I have to make my report, which is this: That
the Irish Revolutionary forces are no more fit to take
the field against England than a lot of Down South
niggers, who never handled any weapon but a hoe.
'Tis the ineffectual Celt all over again!"

X

Myles had a bad night. The words of the priest
and the words of the American officer combined to
make a deep impression upon him. That last word of
Colonel Costelloe, "the ineffectual Celt," beat through
his brain all night, and left him haggard in the morn-
ing. His sister was quick to perceive it.

''You had a late visitor?" she said, as she handed
him the tea at breakfast.

"How do you know? You were fast asleep."

"But there's an odour of cigars here; and the de-
canter has gone down several degrees."

"You miserable little skinflint," he said. "Measur-
ing the decanter! Who ever heard of such a thing in
an Irish house?"

"But you had a visitor?" Agnes persisted. "And
he wasn't a gentleman to call on you at such an hour,
and after such a day."

"He knew nothing of our bereavement," said Myles.
"He called on business!"

"You are not disposed to tell me anything about
him," she said. "Very good! Then you shall hear
nothing of my visitors. I can keep my own
secrets."

"I am at least glad that someone called on you,"
he said. "I was saying to Father MacCarthy that
you would probably feel lonely last night; and I
wanted to stay at home."

A STORY OF '67 63

"And escape a lecture?"

"Well, yes! He said that young housekeepers are
never lonely. They find a hundred things to do."

"So you got the lecture, and you missed — ?"

He looked up puzzled. He was pretty careless whom
he had missed. Heavier thoughts were pressing upon
him.

"You are not curious?"

"Not in the least!"

"Then I needn't tell?"

"Of course not."

"Mr. Halpin called!"

"Oh, that's it, is it? What did he want?"

"Nothing. Just to pay you a visit of condolence,"
he said. " He was turning away from the door, when
I called him in."

"I'm very glad. He's an excellent fellow — as true
as steel."

"They're not always appreciated. Mary treated
him rather cavalierly, if I may say so!"

"Mary? What Mary?"

"There's only one Mary in the world now."

"Miss Carleton?"

"Yes!"

"And she called at Millbank? What a condescen-
sion! And snubbed poor Halpin, who is worth a
hundred like her!"

"Myles!"

"Well?"

"What's come over you? I'm speaking of Miss
Mary Carleton, my former friend and fellow-pupil — "

"I'm not interested," he said. "But poor Halpin —
was he badly hurt?"

"Very! When he came back from the door, which

64 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

he had gracefully opened, he began to talk like an
insane person!"

"That's not his way. He's pretty level-headed."

''Of course. But, you must remember that it was
probably the first time in his life that he met a beauti-
ful girl, and that she — well, ignored him."

"Yes, 'twas trying. But Halpin is not a man to
wilt under a stroke like that! He is too much of a
philosopher!"

"Indeed? That reminds me. He said, amongst
other wild things — this was before Mary left, how-
ever, that three classes of persons enter politics — the
fool, the rogue, and the philosopher. Let me see how
he put it? The fool goes out and dies for an opinion;
the rogue makes a living out of it. The philosopher
ponders the mighty problem but seldom speaks, for
he knows that Wisdom crieth aloud in the street, and
there is no one to listen or hearken."

"I see. Well, yes, that was slightly insane in such
company. Anything worse?"

"No! But when he came back from the door, wilted,
as you would say, he said to me, 'No one is a real
Celt, who would not enjoy hiding under a stone wall
on the summit of some Irish mountain, and watching
for a whole day the rain blown up in sheets across the
heather by the wild wind from the west!"

"Yes! That's very bad," said Myles, rising from
table. "I must see Halpin. He'll lose his school, if
he goes on like that."

He called on the schoolmaster a few evenings later
on. He was not in the habit of visiting Halpin. Here,
too, the very nice class-distinctions obtained; and, alas!
that it should be said, a schoolmaster was almost as
much beneath a merchant, as a shopkeeper was be-

A STORY OF '67 65

neath a solicitor. And ]\Iyles Cogan, democrat and
revolutionary as he was, had not yet soared quite
above these social distinctions. But, here there was a
spirit of camaraderie that madeexclusiveness impossible;
and besides, if Halpin's visit to Millbank was a visit
of ceremony, this visit of Myles to the lonely teacher
was one of business. In truth, he was gravely dis-
quieted; and, though a thought of retreat never entered
his mind, he needed a tonic to keep that mind steady
toward* its great end.

Halpin, as usual, was reading and smoking. He
put the book aside, and motioned his friend to a seat.

"I missed you the other night!" said INIyles, simply.

"Yes! But it was of no consequence. I believe I
was missed also in another place!"

"So Colonel Costelloe told me. He called late that
night; and was in a fierce temper. He is about to warn
the Yanks that the game is up here. He said we were
undrilled, unarmed, undisciplined. He called us 'the
ineffectual Celt.'"

"Of course. But you didn't expect help from these
gentlemen, did you?"

"Why, yes! The main hope of the movement was
in the military knowledge and experience of these
Irish-American officers."

"You are right. It was. But that is no longer the
case. Since the escape of Stephens, and the deposi-
tion of Colonel John O'Mahony, the Yanks have
thrown us up! We have to rely upon ourselves."

Myles Cogan looked blank. He had not realised
this.

"In fact," continued Halpin, "from the very begin-
ning it was evident that this would be the case. No
nation is fit for independence that is not able to win it."

66 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Then, I must say, it is all up with us. You said
as much the last evening we met in the livery stables,
when these poor fellows were going on about croppy-
pikes and dragoons."

"Yes! I said all that deliberately; and it was true.
There is nothing gained by telling lies to ourselves."

"But, then, in God's name, Halpin, if we are so
helpless, so disorganised, so ineffectual, are we justi-
fied in exposing all these poor devils to certain death,
or life-long imprisonment?"

Halpin was silent. Myles grew a little angry. A
horrible suspicion struck him.

"Halpin," he said, "you don't misunderstand me?"

Halpin stretched forth his hand, and grasped his
friend's firmly.

"No!" he said. "I know you too well. But, if
I were certain that our movement was to be as futile
and profitless as that smoke, I would still say,
Go on!"

"And sacrifice everything?"

"Sacrifice many things to save the nation. The
country has become plethoric and therefore indifferent
to everything but bread and cheese. It needs blood-
letting a little. The country is sinking into the sleep
of death; and nothing can awake it but the crack of
the rifle."

"And we have to suffer, and teach!"

"We may also have to teach from our graves!"

Myles Cogan needed all his strength of character
to keep back his tears. Instead of the "pomp and
circumstance of war," the panoply and the glory and
the pageantry — the ringing of bridles, the clash of
sabres, the crack of musketry, he saw only the bleeding
figures of a few mutilated peasants, and a long row of

A STORY OF '67 67

gray-clad convicts with the hideous arrow stamped
all over them.

"You depress me, Halpin," he said. "If all our
work is to end in a fiasco like Ballingarry, the sooner
we quit it the better."

"If you mean, that ours will be no Waterloo or
Thermopylae, your conjecture is right. We shall rise
in rebellion. We shall take out a few hundred poor
fellows who couldn't hit a haystack with their rifles;
and a few hundred more, who are armed with pikes
and blackthorns. At the first volley from five or six
policemen, they will run and disperse, leaving half-a-
dozen dead. Perhaps, in Dublin or Wicklow or Wex-
ford, they will fling up barricades, and probably shoot
a soldier or two; and then get blown to atoms by one
or two well-directed shells. And the insurrection is
quenched. For six months after, Crown-Prosecutors
will be earning fat fees at Special Commissions; and
a score or two brave men will be sent to join Kickham
and O'Leary over there in Portland or Dartmoor."

"By Heavens, Halpin, if you are right and that is
all, we are nothing short of criminals to drag brave, if
ignorant, poor fellows into such a mess."

"But it is not all!" said Halpin stoically. Then a
strange light came into his eyes.

" You and I will be shot. Our bodies will lie stretched
out on the Irish heather; our blood will have soaked
back into our mother's breast. But, the very wretches
that handled Holloway's bribes last week and satu-
rated themselves with filthy liquor', will take up our
lacerated bodies, and weep over them, and carry them
down with every honour to our graves; and the women,
who shouted aloud, or waved their handkerchiefs
yesterday, will snip away bits of cloth from our tat-

68 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

tered uniforms, and keep them as relics for their chil-
dren. And, in after years, Irishmen will come from
over the seas, and find out where Cogan and where
Halpin fell, and carry away with them to Mexico or
Australia a bit of the heather which our dead bodies
pressed; and the political degradation of the people
which we shall have preached with our gaping wounds
will shame the nation into at least a paroxysm of
patriotism once again!"

"That means," said Myles Cogan after a long pause,
"that we, Fenians, are not soldiers, but preachers?"

"Preachers, prophets, and martyrs!" said his friend.
"You have had an example here of how low the nation
has sunk. Do you think your life or mine too great
a price to elevate and save them?"

"You told my sister, Agnes, so she informed me;
that in politics, the fools go out and die!" said Myles,
smiling at the absurdity.

"Of course, it is the fools that do all the world's great
work. Then, the world calls them heroes."

"And you are sanguine, that if we die, a new spirit
will come into the country?"

"Undoubtedly. But, if no blood is shed, the coun-
try will rot away, until it becomes a very Job upon his
dunghill."

"Yes!" said Myles, musingly. "We are sunk very
low just now."

"Yet, the vital spark is never wholly dead. Did
you hear what happened at Costelloe's visit the other
night?"

"About these boys? Yes, he told me!"

"It was no farce. The fellow frightened the men
first by his hectoring and blasphemy. They did not
know what these furious fellows, with all their notions

A STORY OF '67 69

of military discipline, might do. The little chap
thought he was to die!"

"And never winked?"

"He closed his eyes, and waited for the bullet to
crack through his brain. Yes! the vital spark never
wholly dies!"

XI

The conversation gave Myles Cogan food for
thought. It raised the question to a higher plane.
It is no longer the political independence of Ireland
that has to be sought; but the very salvation of the
people. And this can only be effected by the shedding
of blood. What a light it threw on O'Connell's famous
words! How it justified Mitchell! How it sanctioned
and adopted Meagher's Apologue to the Sword! Yes!
all the eloquence of Grattan, all the philosophy of
Burke, all the fire of Shiel, all the splendour of Plunkett,
cannot lift this generation from the slough into which
it has fallen. It needs the shedding of blood!

He felt that it would be madness to propound such
a fantastic theory to the rank and file of the Fenians.
They couldn't understand it. They were enrolled
and sworn to create an Irish Republic; that was their
aim. Anything so transcendental as Halpin's theory
would be scouted by them as insanity, or treason.
Yes! If Myles Cogan said to them:

"There is no hope; not the ghost of a chance that
we shall succeed. That is a dream of madness. But
a few of us must die, — it may be ten, it may be a
hundred, it may be a thousand, in order that the mob
should no longer shout after Castle nominees, or get
drunk, or otherwise disrespect themselves," the proba-
bility is that they would depose him, and shoot him
as a traitor.

A STORY OF '67 71

Yes! He would keep the sublime idea locked up
in his own mind, and exchange it only with Halpin.

But it was quite true, as he conjectured, that other
thoughts were agitating the minds of the rank and file
of the Fenians, and just then, and still more, later on,
stinging them to madness. All this delay, this post-
ponement of the signal of revolution from month to
month, was becoming intolerable. When would the
watch-fires be lighted, the heather set on fire? They
were tired of all this drilling and this secrecy. Like
true impatient Celts, they revolted at the idea of
caution or preparation. They wanted to be led out
into the mountains and the hillsides and let them see
what they could do. Poor fellows! Whatever he
thought of the madness, the sheer insanity of their
ideas of wresting Ireland from England, one thing at
least is certain, that not a man of them had an idea
of self before him; not a man, who was not prepared
to yield up his life gladly for the "ould dart."

As the winter of 1866 stole in, the impatience of
the rebels became too persistent to be ignored; and
word went round from the Dublin Centres that '67
should not dawn before one strong blow had been
struck for Ireland. The nation waited on the tiptoe
of expectation; because there was no secrecy about
the doings of the Brotherhood. Everyone knew that
a revblution was in progress; and imagination filled
in the picture. It was generally expected that Christ-
mas would see the whole island in the agonies of a civil
war.

Meanwhile, the government was watching the whole
affair quietly, thoroughlj^ cognisant of every step taken
by the revolutionaries; yet eager to wait until the
whole thing should ripen into action, and be crushed

72 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

in such a manner that it should never be heard of again.
Occasionally, some Irish-American oflScer was arrested
at Queenstown, and quietly deported back to the
States; and troops were silently sent over from England,
until quite an army was dispersed through the barracks
and cantonments of Ireland.

To all outer appearances, Myles Cogan was pursuing
a quiet business career. After his father's affairs had
been finally arranged, he threw himself into the milling
and baking and wool-business as if he had no object
in life but to make money, and settle down as a re-
spectable citizen, whose highest ambition was to be a
town councillor or a Poor Law guardian. As he went
around in his white miller's coat and hat, rushing
hither and thither, meeting commercial travellers,
journeying to Dublin or some great wheat centre,
observers found it hard to believe that he was the
Arch-Revolutionist in his neighbourhood; and they
would have found it still more difficult to believe that
this brave, strong young man, who had such a mag-
nificent career before him, had yet in his inner con-
sciousness no prospect but that of being shot down
near some hill or valley before many weeks were over.
Not that it troubled him much. His mind was made
up. It was his Fate, and he determined to meet it
bravely.

At each meeting during that winter, the men were
becoming painfully demonstrative. The delay was
playing on nerves highly strung and irritable. They
were beginning to feel that there was treason lurking
somewhere; that the old, dark spectre of treachery
was lowering above them again. Several times they
challenged Myles; and he had to give an evasive
answer.

A STORY OF '67 73

Then one evening just before Christmas, he read for
them a certain document he had received from Dublin,
deposing him from the oflfice of Head Centre, but al-
lowing him to retain the name of Captain. There
was a time when such a degradation would have
lashed him into fury. But, now that the object of
his life was changed, he took it calmly.

Not so the men. They saw in a moment that it was
Costelloe's work; and their own nerves were smarting
under the castigation he had given them.

"Damn them!" said Murty Linehan, "they thinks
we are a parcel of children. There they are, codraulin'
up there in Dublin; and pocketing the American dol-
lars; and here are we, drilling and marchin' from
mornin' till night, until we haven't shoe-leather to
our feet. Write back, and tell 'em, Captain, that we
refuse to obey a pack of spalpeens like them."

"If you had taken my advice, Murty," said a
swarthy blacksmith, "and rowled that fellow, Cos-
telloe, in the furze, he'd have stopped his commanding,
and gone home to scratch himself."

"That won't do, men," said Myles. "We are bound
by our oaths; and we have to obey the commands
of our superiors. I suppose they mean something
now!"

"And who's to be our Head Centre, now?" they
asked.

"That I don't know!" said Myles. "They have not
informed me."

Halpin was sitting back, silent as usual. He now
came forward, and took a paper from his breast-pocket,
and handed it to Myles.

"That came this afternoon," he said. "I am quite
at a loss to understand it."

74 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Myles glanced over the paper; and a deep frown
gathered on his forehead. He looked at Halpin search-
ingly for a moment. Then he read the document,
which appointed Captain James Halpin Head Centre
for that district with plenary powers; giving him juris-
diction over a large area extending from river to river,
and from mountain to mountain in the Midlands.

There was a laugh; then a growl; then a strong
murmur of dissent amongst the men. But Myles
folded the paper, and handed it back to Halpin,
saying:

''You see, comrades, they mean business now. Get
your knapsacks in order; for you'll be under marching-
orders soon!"

He left abruptly without another word; and Halpin
coolly stepped into his place, and issued orders in a
quiet, firm tone. They were too much surprised to
resent it. They didn't know what to think. Some
said that Halpin had met Costelloe, and arranged
for the deposition of Myles. Some remembered that
Costelloe was particularly abusive of Halpin. Some
thought that Myles had been getting lukewarm in the
cause, and that this was known to the Executive. But
over all the affair loomed the dark cloud of suspicion
that haunts every secret attempt at revolution. There
was treason somewhere and backsliding; but where?

XII

Myles Cogan was on trial elsewhere the following
night. In the comfortable drawing-room of Mrs.
Edward Carleton the blinds and curtains were drawn;
the fire burned merrily; Mrs. Carleton sat in an easy
chair, reading beneath the gas-lamp; Mary Carleton
was running her fingers along her piano, rather through
habit than from any love of the occupation.

Just as the clock struck ten, Edward Carleton and
a younger gentleman entered the drawing-room; and
sent a pleasant odour of cigars into the air.

"Order tea, Mary," said Mrs. Carleton, looking
up from her book, and pushing forward an armchair.

Edward Carleton looked serious, too serious for a
man who had dined well.

"Rendall tells me," he said, alluding to his guest,
"that there is danger, great danger in the near future."

"Danger of a rising? Those wretched Fenians?"
said Mrs. Carleton, looking up.

"Yes! The Government are now thoroughly
alarmed. They were a little supine all along; but
information has now reached them that the matter
may be very serious. Is that so, Rendall?"

"Quite so!" said District Inspector Rendall. "Of
course these poor fools have played into our hands
all along. We know every one of them, and every
movement of theirs. And all along they seemed
beneath our contempt. But, things are coming to a

76 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

crisis now; and we are under notice to expect an
outbreak!"

"That means barricades, and firing, and all that?"
said Mrs. Carleton, thinking of her window curtains.

"Yes! But not much, I think. These fellows are
untrained. Some of them have never handled a gun.
They'll have pikes and pitchforks, and one or two old
muzzle-loaders. But at the very first volley, they'll
run!"

"But, in country places, Rendall, they may do
harm. The Lingens and the Staffords around here
have been consulting me about sending in their plate
to the bank; and I have advised them to do so."

"And quite right. These scoundrels will probably
raid a few mansions here and there, where the police
can't get at them. Of course, it is just there the mis-
chief will be done, till our troops come up with them,
and shoot or hang them."

"It is strange that the priests can't stop all this,"
said Mrs. Carleton, peevishly. She was one of those
happy Catholics who would like to throw every re-
sponsibility on the shoulders of the priests.

Rendall shrugged his shoulders. He was an official
and did not like to touch so delicate a subject.

"Well, you see," said Edward Carleton, "there was
the grand mistake made by our governments from
time to time, not to have captured the priests by pay-
ing them. They'd have a lot of men with much
influence with them. Now, they have flung them on
the people. We're taxed beyond endurance by them;
and they are muzzled by the populace."

There was some confusion here; but Edward Carle-
ton was not too choice in his language, especially
when he was under emotion.

A STORY OF 'G7 77

"They bark a little through the muzzle, Papa," said
Mary Carleton, breaking silence. "At least, I have
heard some pretty strong language from the altar."

"But they ought to condemn these scoundrels, attack
them, hold them up to public reprobation, annihilate
them," said Edward Carleton. He brought down a
heavy book on the table as he spoke.

"For goodness' sake. Papa, take care," said his
daughter. "These are our best set. If you broke
one of these cups, we could never replace it."

"I say these gentlemen, whom we, respectable
citizens, are maintaining in luxury (I pay them two
pounds a year), should come out, and denounce these
flagitious ruffians and midnight marauders; I say
they are guilty of dereliction of duty in not bringing
public opinion to bear on these assassins and cut-
throats, and dragging them out of their retreats to
hold them up — to hold them up — to hold them
up—"

"Perhaps, they wouldn't be strong enough. Papa,
to hold them up," said his dutiful daughter; "Father
James doesn't look too robust."

Edward Carleton glared at his daughter for a
moment, but he thought there was no use in entering
into a conflict there.

"Of course, these Fenian people are the outcasts,
what may be called the riff-raff of the population?"
said Mrs. Carleton, addressing the District-Inspector.

"Oh, dear, yes!" he said, "the very lowest type.
Labourers and artisans, and masons, and shoemakers.
But I think the tailors are the worst!"

"How strange!" said Mrs. Carleton, unloosing some
threads, "one would suppose that it was a peaceful
profession enough!"

78 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"So it is! so it is!" said Kendall, "in fact we can't
do without them — "

Miss Carleton laughed rather impolitely.

"But you see, these fellows, it appears, sit cross-
legged, five or six on a huge board; and of course,
they must talk; and what they talk about is gen-
erally high treason."

"Ah!" said Mary Carleton, "that is what is meant
by cooking a tailor's goose!"

The District-Inspector laughed; but he somewhat
felt that this demure young lady was poking fun at
him.

"Well, that's the class they are," he said, "of course,
their leaders, or Centres, as they're called, are a little
better, I mean, in better positions, although as a rule
they're more atrocious scoundrels than the rank and
file!"

"My gracious! Mr. Kendall," said Mary Carleton,
"but surely they haven't done anything so bad
yet!"

"No, of course, they daren't. But, wait till the
rising takes place; and then you'll see what irre-
sponsible and truculent savages can do!"

"Can you tell me positively, Mr. Kendall," said
Edward Carleton, toying with his teaspoon, "I hope
I'm not trespassing on professional secrets, whether
a young client of mine, named Cogan, is involved?"

"He is, or rather was. Head Centre here," said the
Inspector. "We know all about the fellow, — and
a dangerous customer he is; but, for some reason or
other, we have information that he has been deposed.
We haven't got at the root of the matter yet!"

"I'm sorry for him!" quoth the attorney. "His
father, old Dan Cogan, was a decent enough sort of

A STORY OF '67 79

fellow, a little vulgar, fond of rattling silver in his
trousers' pockets, and saying Sir! every second. But,
he was a good business man; and he left a pretty
pile. You're aware, of course, that it was his son
hung out that black flag — "

"Papa!" said Mary Carleton.

"Well, my dear? There's not a doubt about the
matter."

"There's a certainty," said Mary Carleton, grow-
ing a little white under the eyes, "that Myles Cogan
never — "

"Mary!" cried her mother, warningly, "how can you
speak of that young man so familiarl3^ Surely, you
don't know people of that type?"

"Perhaps," said Miss Carleton, recovering her self-
possession, "I slipped into the habit from hearing
everyone calling him Myles Cogan. He appears to
be a great favourite!"

"Ah, yes!" said Kendall. "There lies the danger.
These half-educated fellows, who attain popularity,
assume great control; and they lead these poor ig-
norant fellows to ruin!"

"But you're speaking, Mr. Rendall, as if Mr. Cogan
had already done something terrible. Has he?"

"I cannot say he has," said the officer, "but just
listen to this!"

He fumbled in his breast-pocket, and drew out a
notebook. From this he extracted a piece of very
thin paper, smoothed it out and read, whilst Mrs.
Carleton laid down her work, the man of law looked
at the ceiling, and Mary Carleton, leaning her fair
cheek on her hand, watched the officer with intense
interest:

80 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Comrades:

" The hour is at hand. Slowly, but surely, the fingers
on the dial are moving on to the moment when the nation
shall be bidden, Arise! We have waited long, but our
patience is about to be rewarded. For us, destiny is
waiting — with a twofold choice, the sight of victory, for
which generations of our Countrymen dreamed and died,
a victory that will crown our poor dishonoured motherland
queen again, or death so glorious that it seems more to
be desired than victory, because then we shall have done
man's noblest work, man's highest duty, of dying for his
country's freedom. Our hereditary enemies, the Sasse-
nach and the Gall, call us rebels against authority, whereas
we are but insurgents against tyranny, and vindicators
of our country's rights. And these same tyrants, whilst
dangling before us the rope of the malefactor for our
fidelity to the noblest instinct that God has implanted in
human hearts, are at the moment stirring up revolution
in half the countries of Europe. They lay down their
political principles; and then threaten to hang us for
accepting them. Here's what the ' Times,' the London
Thunderer, says:

"'The government should be for the good of the governed; and
whenever rulers wilfully and persistently postpone the good of their
subjects, either to the interests of foreign states, or to abstract
theories of religion or poUtics, the people have a right to throw off
that yoke. This is a principle that can no longer be questioned.'

and again:

'"The destiny of a nation ought to be determined not by the
opinions of other nations, but by the opinion of the nation itself.'

and again:

'"England has not scrupled to avow her opinion that the people
of the Roman States, like every other people, have a right to choose

A STORY OF '67 81

the form of their own government, and the persons in whose hands
that government may be placed.'

" You see, then, that we are but following the counsel of
the ' Times.' If the Italians are justified in wresting
the Imperial Power from the Pope, surely we, after our
six centuries of brutal misgovernment, are justified in
casting off, once and for ever, the hated yoke of England.

"Therefore, be ye ready! 'Tis your motherland that
calls. The shades of our departed great ones are watching
us from eternity's stillness, — the great spirits of Emmet
and Lord Edward, of William Orr and Wolfe Tone, of
Smith O'Brien, and Mitchell and Meagher of the Sword.
'Tis they that speak to us from their graves and tell us
that the night is passing, the day is dawning, and that
the eternal prophecies are about to be fulfilled."

"There's a lot more of that rubbish," said the officer,
folding the paper, "but you have seen enough to show
what a firebrand this Cogan is. He'll be the first that
shall be laid by the heels."

"Abominable treason!" said Edward Carleton.
"Who'd ever think that that young fellow would be
such a bloodthirsty ruffian?"

"But he is deposed, set aside, Mr. Rendall. Is that
so?" said Mary Carleton.

"Yes! These fellows are always fighting with one
another, and betraying each other. We have not got
all particulars as yet, but I think a poor, half-blind
schoolmaster will probably succeed him. You may
have noticed him, shuffling along the streets sometimes,
his head down, rather shabbily dressed, and with a very
wicked little Irish terrier at his heels. These are the
officers of the Irish Republican Brotherhood!"

82 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"But!" said Edward Carleton, quite indignant,
"you say he is a National Teacher. Why then isn't
the ruffian dismissed? Are such scoundrels as he is
to be supported by government funds?"

"The Government are playing a deep game," replied
Kendall. "It would show our hand to have him dis-
missed just now. When the time is ripe, we'll strike.
Besides, to dismiss such a fellow now, would only make
him a martyr; and they'd probably make up a sub-
scription for him, and give him more than ever he had
in his life."

"That is not his own opinion," said Mary Carleton,
quietly. "I heard him say that, in politics, it is the
fools that go out and get killed; the rogues turn their
politics into hard cash; the thinkers stop at home and
are silent."

"You — heard — him — say?" cried Mrs. Carleton,
in an accent of terrified surprise. "Pray, when and
where did you meet such a man? You have been
reading romances, and dreaming. It was Myles Cogan
a while ago; and now it is this — this — pedagogue!"

"I met him at Miss Cogan's the evening I called
there with your permission, mother," she said. "I
exchanged no words with him; but I don't think the
man is a fool. Although perhaps he is. For is he not
going to die for an idea; and what greater folly can
there be than that?"

"I shouldn't have allowed you to go to that house,"
said her mother, musingly. "Everything seems to be
getting mixed up these times."

"Well, young ladies must have heroes," said Rendall,
rising to go. "But I'm afraid these heroes of the
stables and the workshops will hardly succeed in over-
throwing the British government in this fair realm of

A STORY OF '67 83

Ireland, But which is to be the Cid Campeador
remains to be seen — the miller or the schoolmaster."
Mary Carleton had an angry retort on her lips; but
she controlled herself. Yet, to see Myles Cogan
handcuffed and driven like a sheep to the shambles by
this fellow, would be hard. Would it not?

XIII

James Halpin, now Head Centre of his district, was
much perturbed by his promotion. He had not de-
sired it, much less sought it, and he knew what a burden
it meant. But, he argued, matters should soon reach a
crisis; and, then, his responsibility would cease. What
pained him deeply was the implied censure, amounting
almost to an insult, to his friend, Myles Cogan, and
the possibility, but this he considered remote, that
Myles might suspect him to be privy to his own deposi-
tion.

Meanwhile, he continued with quiet zeal his prop-
aganda of nationalist sentiments amongst the boys
under his charge. This was no easy task; for the
principal of the school was a Whig of the bluest type,
to whom Government was everything, — Country,
nothing. Everything, except a geographical map,
that could remind them that they were Irish boys,
was carefully excluded from the schoolroom. Never
a word of Irish history was taught, the names of Irish
heroes were unknown. The boys sang:

"Poor mortal man, thy lusts control,"

for the teacher had a strong leaning towards Evangeli-
cal pietism, or :

" Soldiers in the Park,"

which was well and stirringly sung by the boys, and
gave great delight to the inspectors. But, such

A STORY OF '67 85

revolutionary hymns, as "Let Erin remember the days
of old" were sternly forbidden; and a boy was well
whipped for singing "O'Donnell Aboo!"

Nevertheless, in some quiet way, little Irish symbols
began to show themselves, such as bunches of sham-
rocks painted on copy-books, sometimes with medal-
lion portraits of Emmet or Lord Edward in their
midst; and a popular London music-hall song of the
period called the "Dark girl dressed in blue," was
promptly extinguished on the public streets by the
boys shouting in chorus:

"Vive-la the new brigade!
Vive-la the old one, toof
Vive-la the rose shall fade,
And the shamrock shine for ever new! "

Philip Shea, who had looked into the mouth of
Colonel Costelloe's revolver unafraid, had been soundly
whipped by his father at home for his promotion to a
lieutenancy in the army of the Irish Republic, and
still more soundly by the old schoolmaster, who shivered
for his salary. He made a speech on the occasion, in
which he said that his school was becoming a nest of
damnable young rebels; but that he. was determined
so long as he could wield a rattan to knock that d —
nonsense out of them, even if he had to draw blood.
All of which, of course, made them more determined
rebels than ever; and, to do him justice, James Halpin
helped them cordially. Once or twice, the head
teacher had spoken to the manager to have Halpin
removed, for that he was demoralising the boys by
teaching them Fenianism.

"That old fool!" said the manager, "a Fenian!
He wouldn't know at which end to hold a gun!"

SG THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

A few mornings after his deposition, Myles Cogan
was at breakfast; and after glancing over his letters,
he handed a note to his sister, and said:

"Are you a good hand at deciphering, Agnes?"

She took the little note, and read:

^^ Beware! There's a traitor in your camp. Every
word you say is in the Police-Ofice in twenty-four
hours!"

She frowned a little, pursed her lips a little, shrugged
her shoulders a little, and said:

"The hand is disguised;] but it was a woman who
wrote it!"

"Well-done! But that didn't strike me. Are you
sure?"

"Quite! There's^ a peakiness about the letters that
you never see in men's handwriting."

"And you have no suspicion?"^

"Of the traitor?"

"No, no, no! I mean, my unknown correspondent."

"I have a suspicion of both. But these are only
girls' fancies, you know! Look! Here are some
specimens of mortuary cards for poor papa. Which
do you like?"

He rose abruptly.

"They are all the same!" he said. "I must be off.
I have to see that old humbug, Carleton, about father's
affairs. What are we to do about all these letters of
condolence? This is the most modern nuisance. Look
at this resolution from the Board of Guardians, every
man of whom fought against poor father during his
lifetime."

"Well, but we must acknowledge them," said his
sister. "It is the custom, I suppose!"

"Yes! Everything hollow, everything hypocritical,

I

A STORY OF '67 87

everything cunning and mean and Pharisaical! Oh!
What an age!"

"And a traitor in camp!" said his sister. "Oh,
Mylie, will anything teach you not to trust these men;
but to break away from them immediately? You see,
you know, you cannot depend on them!"

"And, therefore, little sisters must bring their
superior wisdom to bear on political questions. Never
mind! And so it is a girl's handwriting."

"I said a 'woman's handwriting,'" she retorted, as
if nettled by his flippant manner.

"'Tis all the same!" he said. But he looked dis-
appointed.

But Agnes took the note upstairs; and opened her
writing desk, and compared, as a professional expert
would, the mysterious warning with several letters that
lay nestled up in her drawers, and pursed her lips, and
shook her head, and said:

"I knew I was right. It is just the same. But how
could she have derived the information?"

After a long pause, she started, as if a sudden reve-
lation had been made to her, pondered a little, wavered
a little, then promptly made up her mind; and dressing
hastily, she passed into the town, and, after some
hesitation, feeling that the hour was decidedly un-
fashionable for calling, she knocked at Edward Carle-
ton's, and asked to see Miss Carleton.

Promptly, Mary Carleton came downstairs, just
wondering a little why her old school-companion should
have called so early. Then, after a few commonplace
exchanges, Agnes burst out crying, and said almost
hysterically:

"Oh, Mary, Mary, you alone can save him!"

88 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Mary Carleton grew a little pale at the suggestion;
then looked annoyed, then interested, as she said:

"Save? Him? Save whom, and from what, Agnes?"

"Myles, my brother!" sobbed Agnes. "He showed
me this note this morning; and I knew at once it came
from you. He doesn't know it, and I have not told
him. But it is all so dreadful; and coming so soon
after poor papa's death!"

The tone of the bereaved girl was so sad, so pathetic,
that Mary Carleton felt there was no room for dissem-
bling.

"Yes!" she said, "I wrote it. I have information
that matters are looking very dangerous for your
brother. But you understand that I do not wish for
the world that anyone, and he above all, should know
it. But you say I can save him. How?"

The poor girl was silent for a moment, fearing to
say something indelicate. Then, summoning courage,
she said:

"Myles would do anything for you, Mary. You
are the only living person that could influence him!"

A hot blush ran up across Miss Carleton's features,
and flushed even her forehead. She seemed annoyed
for a moment. Then a gladder feeling swept the
annoyance aside. But she saw the enormous difficul-
ties of the situation.

"Let us put our foolish heads together," she said,
"and see what we can do! You are aware that your
brother is no longer in command; I mean, Head Centre
as they call them?"

"No! He never told me. He never tells me any-
thing," said Agnes. "He takes me for a child!"

"Well, he wants to spare you, I suppose. But this
is a help. He is no longer in command of these mad

A STORY OF '67 89

fellows; but, of course, he would be too generous to
break away on that account!"

"Ah, of course. You know him better than I,
Mary. No! We could not play upon his pride there!"

"And the ban of the Church has not frightened
him?"

"It has. And I know he has sleepless nights over
it, because he cannot go to Confession. What made
it worse was, that once when he spoke of going to
Confession outside the diocese, and to some sympa-
thetic priest, Father James told him that no priest
had the power, even if he had the wish, to absolve
him."

"And still he clings on?"

"Yes! That dreadful oath is weighing on him.
He thinks he cannot break it. And — he has such
a love for Ireland! It would break your heart to
hear him sometimes — the way he talks about Ire-
land. You'd imagine, for all the world, he was speak-
ing about mother."

"Ah! that's bad," said Mary Carleton. "An en-
thusiast, a fanatic, a would-be-martyr, — what can
3'ou do with such?"

"There's one power, and only one, stronger than
patriotism, they say," continued Agnes.

"And that is?" said Mary Carleton, heedlessly.

"The love of a woman!"

"And that means your brother loves me; and for
me would throw up his allegiance?"

There was a tone of scorn in the words, that fright-
ened Agnes a Httle, but she said:

"I am only conjecturing, Mary. Indeed, I never
heard — I have no idea — that is, I never heard Myles
speak in that manner of you. I am only a child. But,

90 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Mary, Mary, I tell you that you alone can save
him!"

"And if I did," said Mary Carleton, "that is, if Myles
Cogan abandoned for me a cause deemed so sacred by
him that he is prepared to give his life for it, what
then? Could I ever respect him again? Never!"

She spoke so strongly, her whole face transfigured,
and her eyes flashing with a strange light, that Agnes
Cogan trembled before her, and then rose up.

"Oh, I should never have come!" she said. "I
am so foolish! See now, you despise me; and if Myles
should ever hear that I came to you on such an errand,
he could never forgive me!"

"Never mind!" said Mary Carleton, more calmly.
"He can never hear about it. But, keep your own
counsel. The times are dangerous! Good-bye!"

She kissed and parted with her young friend, who
went away disconsolate; and it was only on the
threshold of her own door that she just remembered
that she should have asked her friend:

"Why then did you send Myles that note?"

XIV

The spring of 1867 broke fair and promising, so far
as Nature was concerned. Men's minds, too, were
restful because the threatened outbreak of 1866 had
not taken place. Clearly these Fenians were poor
players at revolution. They made up in boasting what
they lacked in courage. District-Inspector Rendall
was scornful.

"I told you," he said at the Carletons, "what these
fellows were. They have bolted at the last moment
— a clear case of funk. But, they are not going to
escape us. We have evidence enough to hang half-a-
dozen at least."

"Was it the constabulary, or the troops, they were
afraid of?" asked Mary Carleton, innocently.

"I should say our men," he answered. "You see
we'd have to face the first brunt of the conflict. The
troops would be in reserve. And I have an idea that
the rebels would get less quarter from us."

"Why?"

"Well, because our men are Irish; and the troops
are mostly English. And you know that no people
on earth are so savage with each other, either in civil or
political life, as our brave Irish."

"Ah, yes!" she said sadly. "Then the whole thing
is blown over?"

" Yes! It only remains now to ferret out and punish
these rebels, who have been keeping the whole coun-
try in commotion."

92 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

James Halpin, Head Centre of his district in the
Midlands, seemed to think differently.

"Comrades," he said, in the vast room-loft in the
lane, and addressing nearly one hundred and fifty
Fenians, "the hour has come. I have to announce to
you that the general rising, to which we have been
anxiously looking forward, is indeed to take place on
the night of the 12th of February, that is, on this night
week. The time is short; but the authorities have
expected that we should all be ready. Make your
own domestic arrangements, therefore, in your own
homes. The military arrangements are as follows:

'"Section A. will meet at ten 'clock that night at Galwey's
cross, crossing the fields and river to avoid observation. A detach-
ment of ten men will be told off to bring the rifles and bayonets
from the place of concealment, which will be pointed out on the
map to the officer in command.

Section B. is told off to cut off the railway communications with
the junction, by displacing the rails and sleepers at intervals; and
to cut the telegraph wires all around the town.

"'Section C. under command of Myles Cogan, now raised to the
rank of Colonel, will converge at the village of Knockbarry, attack
the pohce-barrack there, and seize the arms and ammunition; and
then proceed with all haste towards the Junction, where General
Massey will be in command of fifteen hundred men.'

"Each soldier shall provision himself for three days
with bread, potted meat, and cheese. All spirituous
liquors are sternly prohibited. After the first suc-
cesses, it will be the duty of the representatives of
the Republic to see after the commissariat depart-
ment, and provision the men.

"I have no more to say. The time has come to show
whether we are men, or only cattle; and I am sure,
our contingent shall not be the first to waver or retreat;
but may be the first to advance to victory; and from

A STORY OF '67 93

victory to victory, until we shall have swept every
trace of foreign domination from our land."

There was no applause, except when he spoke of
Myles Cogan's promotion, when every man looked
towards the latter and said: "Good! That's right!"
The men silently dispersed. One said:

"Thank God at last! We're going out into the
open; instead of hiding like rats in a stable."

On the 11th of February, the men were summoned
again, this time to be told that the rising was post-
poned from want of preparation, etc.

"D — n them!" said the men. "They're only
making fools of us. Lade us out, Myles Cogan, and
let us see the beginning and end of it."

But Myles shook his head. There was great pity
in his heart for these men who were to be made a holo-
caust for their country.

But two days later, like a thunderclap came the
intelligence that the whole of Kerry was up in revolt,
that the hills were swarming with armed men, that
already certain skirmishes had taken place in which
the rebels were victors — in fact, that the gallant
little kingdom had flung down the gauntlet at the feet
of the British Empire, and, alone and unaided, was
about to challenge the omnipotence of England. Not
one of the circumstances of a revolution was wanting.
Midnight forays on barracks, much parleying and
diplomacy; a few guns seized; county families flee-
ing from their mansions into the towns and cities, and
carrying their plate under military escort to the banks;
trains carrying troops and guns, rushing through rail-
way stations heavily guarded; officers rushing here
and there, not knowing what to do in such guerrilla
warfare; and then — the collapse. Kerry finds there

94 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

is no national, nor even a provincial, rising. The con-
termand had come too late. The guerrilleros disperse
and hide themselves. District-Inspectors become sud-
denly valiant; and take detachments of men to sweep
the mountains and scour the valleys, and hang all
these rascally rebels as high as Haman. After a day
or two, the troops disperse; and the county gentlemen
come out from the hotels where they were hiding, and,
in lieu of the fox-hunting of which they have been feloni-
ously deprived, they accompany the police and the
straggling soldiery just for the chance of potting a rebel.

District-Inspector Rendall had not been ordered
southwards as he fondly hoped. So at least he said
in Edward Carleton's drawing-room, a few days after
the abortive rising had been suppressed.

"Just what I told you," he said to the family, in
whom he was becoming much interested. "Just a
show of opposition, and these vermin run like rats.
They have raided one or two police barracks and
stolen the guns. And then — on the first sign of the
red-coat, always the terror of the Irish Croppy, they
got away into their holes in the rocks."

"But that does not speak well for the constabulary,
Mr. Rendall," said Mary Carleton, "that the Fenians
take away their rifles, and only run when they see a
red-coat."

"Ah, but, my dear Miss Carleton, remember, that
in these isolated stations there are never more than
five or six men; and they could not resist five hundred,
or, perhaps, a thousand rebels, even though these had
but pikes or pitchforks. But, when the red is seen
gleaming through the trees — "

"Rut surely 'tis at night these raids take place?"
said Miss Carleton.

A STORY OF '67 95

"Quite so! but the moon was shining on the night
of the 12th, and 13th—"

"To be sure! And it made the red uniforms more con-
spicuous. To be sure!"

Mr. Rendall, a little flurried and nettled at this
badinage, was not a little surprised when the young
lady accompanied him to the door, and, placing her
finger lightly on his arm, said:

"Mr. Rendall, do me a favour!"

"With pleasure," he said, his face beaming under
the compliment.

"You said there would be arrests after these foolish
attempts at insurrection?"

"Undoubtedly. The thing is now crushed; and we
have only to punish the instigators."

"You have the power?"

"Yes, without warrant or information. We can
arrest even suspects."

"Then you would do an excellent piece of work if
you promptly arrested the ringleader here!"

"Halpin? He's Head Centre now?"

"I didn't mean him. He is only a lay-figure — a
poor, half-blind schoolmaster."

"There's only one other of any importance — Cogan!
Do you mean Cogan?"

"I do!"

He started back in surprise.

"You think Cogan should be arrested?"

"Yes, and promptly!"

"Then it shall be done!" he said gallantly, raising
her proffered hand to his lips.

He went home, wondering at the ways of women.

"I could swear she was in love with that fellow!"
he said.

XV

The last day of February, 1867, another meeting
of the Fenians was convened; and this time the Head
Centre announced as a final decision that on the night
of March 5th there was to be a general rising in all the
counties of Munster, in Wexford, Wicklow, and Dub-
lin, and in parts of Connaught. There was some
incredulity, and not a few sarcastic observations. But
Halpin was positive that this time there was to be no
mistake. The whole scheme had been planned and
arranged by competent men, who had also had the
benefit of the military experience of some American
officers.

"The military programme," he said, "will be the
same as I announced at a former meeting."

He went over all the details, one by one, and finally
impressed on the men the necessity of the most absolute
secrecy, if the government were to be taken by surprise.

Myles Cogan, who, since his deposition, had always
attended these meetings in silence, broke that silence
this evening and said:

"There's very little use in that admonition, for
every word that is spoken here is in the hands of
Rendall before twenty-four hours."

There was some commotion, and not a little anger
at this. They knew that Myles spoke by the book,
and was not likely to make mistakes.

"Then, by ,'* said Murty Linehan, "this should

A STORY OF '67 97

be looked into. Who is the traitor? I say the doors
should be locked, and let every man be put upon his
oath, until we find out the informer."

"And do you think," said the Head Centre, calmly,
"that the man who has broken the Fenian oath, by
betraying his comrades, would hesitate to perjure
himself here before us to save his skin?"

There was no answer to this. But Murty said, and
the remark met with universal approval:

"There should be some manes of finding out a thrai-
tor. Blood will spake!"

"Only when 'tis shed!" said the schoolmaster,
solemnly, as he looked towards Myles.

"Well, no matter," said a good-humoured fellow.
"We'll all be out this night week; and there will be
no more saycrets for police or priests, for, begor, I'm
more afraid of Father James than of Rendall."

"He has the bad tongue out an' out," said a com-
rade. "But, faith, his heart is in the right place. Of
course, he has to barge us, and denounce us as limbs
of the Divil; but, begor, I'm thinking his own fingers
are itching for the pike."

"Say thim words agen, Maisther Mylie, that you
said the priesht composed, while he was damning and
blashting us all."

And Myles said, but not with the verve and spirit of
former times:

"About old Banba, and Dathi?"

"Yes, yes; there's life in 'em, although a priesht
wrote 'em!"

"'Tis not a time for poetry or sing-song," said
Myles, gravely. "We have work to do now!"

"Yes! But, begor, why shouldn't we be singing at
our work? Do, Master Mylie!"

98 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

'"Tis our last meeting, till we meet on the field,"
said Halpin. "It may help us on a little. Colonel!"

"You think so?"

"I do!"

"Do you wish it?"

"I do!"

"'Tis a command," said Myles. "The words are
these:

" Up there, up there, along the hillsides,
Under red cairns do our heroes sleep.
Theirs is a slumber that is long and deep!

** Up there, up there, along the hillsides.
The wild winds blow, and loud the raven croaks,
And the black Heaven in its anger cloaks
Heather and gorse; and the slow, biting tide
Of Time eats into even the granite hide
Of rocks whereon the Storm King ever rides,
Up there, up there, along the hillsides!

"Up there, up there, along the hillsides,

One ever watches leaning on his spear;

He cannot speak to mortal man, but bides

A time to watch red wolf or fallow deer

And ask them : If for ancient Banba's sake

The time has come, and shall we cry, Awake!

And whitherward the ghostly courier rides?
i Up there, up there, along the hillsides.

" Up there, up there, along the hillsides.
Dark is the night; but brilliant is one star, —
The ruddy planet beckons us to war,
Up there, up there, along the hillsides!

"Up there, up there, along the hillsides,
Is the day dawning; doth the morning break,
And the cry gather; Comrades, awake?
Up there, up there, along the hillsides!

A STORY OF '67 99

"Yea! the dawn doth break; and with a shiver
The warriors ope their eyes, and grasp their spears,
'Tis a long sleep — this of a thousand years!
But Banba is unchanged in hill, and lake, and river!

" Up there, up there, along the hillsides.
Old Dathi's sword's unsheathed; and the hght
Of shields ten thousand make the mountains bright,
Comrades, respond, whatever fate betides!
Her Fate the eternal motherland abides
Up there, up there, along the hillsides!"

"The eternal motherland!" said Halpin. "Ah, yes,
she is calling on her children now as for a thousand
years she has called them to rally to her standard; and
fight once more the battles, in which she has ever been
defeated, but never conquered! What a destiny is
ours! Out of millions she has called on us to rise;
and raise our hand once more for her. She leaves to
others to seek themselves — to drink, to take bribes,
to sell themselves, body and soul, to the enemy! Us
she commands to stand by her side, and defend her.
We cannot fail. Some of us must fall; I shall be the
first! But, when I fall, another worthier than I shall
take my place. You know whom I mean. Him
follow to death also, or victory!"

They walked home together, Myles and Halpin.
In some strange way, the greatness of this poor,
uncouth schoolmaster was stirring Myles' soul to the
depths. He felt that strange shyness which comes
upon one who is suddenly confronted with royalty.
Where he goes, he thought, I shall follow.

They stood together for a moment at the door of
Halpin's humble residence, and exchanged a few busi-
nesslike words. They then grasped hands, — it was

100 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

unusual with them, but they felt the occasion was
solemn, — and separated.

It was after ten o'clock, as usual, when Myles
reached the iron wicket that opened into the lawn
before his house. He was surprised to see a covered
car drawn up as if in waiting a little further along the
road, still more surprised when a lantern was flashed
in his face, and Rendall, surrounded by a body of
police, placed his hand on his shoulder and said:

''I arrest you in the Queen's name!"

"On what charge?" said Myles, eagerly scanning
the windows of the house, lest Agnes should see what
was happening.

"On the charge of belonging to a treasonable so-
ciety, uttering seditious language, and administering
treasonable oaths!"

"On whose information is the warrant issued?"

"That cannot be divulged now. You will pardon the
rudeness, Mr. Cogan; but we have a duty to perform."

And he ordered one of the men to place the hand-
cuffs on Myles' wrists. Myles shuddered and chafed
at the indignity.

"'Tis a gross insult," he said. "You have my
word of honour!"

Rendall shook his head and pointed to the car.
Two constables led Myles forward, and at half past
ten o'clock he was lodged in the Bridewell.

As he sat on the wretched boards that served as
a prison bed, his first thought was of his sister. He
imagined her waking up in the morning and hearing
the news of his arrest. Then he thanked God that
she had not seen it. That clapping the handcuffs
upon him would have killed her.

A STORY OF '67 101

His next thought was one of pride, that the Govern-
ment should have selected him as the most dangerous
enemy in the place, for he had ascertained from the
gaoler that he was the only person arrested that night.
Then, he thought, what effect will it have on the pro-
jected rising. And he had to admit that it would
have none.

He was disturbed in his meditations by the appear-
ance of the gaoler's wife, who brought in a copious
supply of sheets and blankets for the night. She and
her husband were old friends of the Cogans.

"You're breaking the law, Mrs. Tobin," said Myles,
gaily. 'Tm to have a plank bed, after the handcuffs."

"And sweet bad luck to the boccagh who put 'em
on you," she said. "If some of the min had their
way, it is on himself they'd be putting 'em. But the
time will come! Here, get up out of dat, and lave me
make a decent bed for Bride Cogan's son. 'Tis well
she disarved it, of me, and many beside me."

So the good woman went on, whilst she arranged
sheets and blankets and pillows for the prisoner.
They were needed. The night was bitterly cold; and
local Bridewells were not heated with hot-water pipes
as in the cities. But she never ceased her outpour
of vituperation and pity and anger, as she patted the
sheets, and stroked the pillows, and made a decent
bed for her prisoner.

"If Mr. Kendall finds out all you have done for me,"
he said, "you and Dick will be transported."

" Faith, an' how'll he find it? " she exclaimed. " Sure
you're not going to tell him; an' if he shows his ugly
mug here in the morning, he'll see nothin' but a plank
bed. But how did Miss Agnes take it?" she suddenly
asked.

102 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"She knows nothing about it as yet," he replied.
"But she'll hear it early enough tomorrow." And the
tears started to his eyes.

"Well, God give her grace to bear her trial," she
said, "me poor young lady. But, wisha now, Master
Myles, why did you mix yourself up with the blagards
of Fenians? Sure the priests are agin 'em; and every
decent man in town is agin 'em; and, faith, they're agin
themselves, because they say you can't trust wan
among them. But I suppose," she continued, fearing
to pain his feelings, "'tis the hot blood of youth.
Well, they'll lave you cool yer heels here for a while;
and thin, they'll lave you go; and thin, you'll be made
for ever."

He was too absorbed in his own thoughts to hear
her. She saw it, and recovered herself.

"But here am I, an ould angashore, codraulin' away;
and I never axed you had you a mouth on you. What
will you have, Masther Mylie, before you goes to bed?
It is time enough to be thinkin' of yer breckfus in the
morning."

"Nothing, Mrs. Tobin, nothing," he said. "Thank
you ever so much. I had tea; and I want nothing
more. As you say, we'll think of breakfast, if we live
till morning."

"Wisha, thin, a sup of somethin' hot wouldn't do
you any harm nayther. And sure, Dick is takin' his
own night cap this blessed moment."

It would not do. Myles' staunch teetotallism was
not to be undermined even under such winning temp-
tations. Yet, when he looked around the wretched cell
with its white, unplastered walls, its stone floor, its
narrow window, he thought of his own comfortable

A STORY OF '67 103

room at home, — his fire, his lamp, his books, his soft,
comfortable bed, and shuddered.

She saw it; and said coaxingly:

"Lave me bring you a small sup. 'Twouldn't hurt
a child!"

But he shook his head. She departed. He lay
down to sleep; but could not. The suddenness of the
thing had unnerved him.

There was another, who had also a sleepless night.
She had done a desperate thing; and yet she didn't
repent it. But it racked her brain, and tortured her
imagination, and drove all sleep away until morning.

XVI

The morning dawned; and with it the news of
Myles Cogan's arrest startled the town. It was bring-
ing the revolution home to them; and they accepted
it according to their prejudices or dispositions. Some,
the staid, conservative, moneyed men, said: "Quite
right! It was time that this young fool should be
stopped in his mad career; quite true that the insult
he offered to his father and their member should be
avenged!" The poor said, in accents of indignation
and grief:

"May God preserve him and every defender of his
country!"

The rank and file of the Fenians were furious and
alarmed — furious, because they had a great love for
their young hero; alarmed, because it was clear the
government was now on the alert, and could not be
taken by surprise.

At Edward Carleton's breakfast table the matter
came' up for discussion.

"Wonders will never cease," said he, cutting his
toast into little squares. "That young fellow was in
my office yesterday; and milder-mannered or more
gentlemanly young fellow I never spoke to. We went
through all his affairs to take out administration; and
his head is as clear as a Q.C.'s. And then was it last
night, or the night before Rendall was here; and he
never even alluded to the matter — "

A STORY OF '67 105

"There was a desperate struggle, I'm told," said
Mrs. Carleton, "and Mr. Rendall had to handcuff
him. I hope Mr. Rendall wasn't hurt! Poor gentle-
man! What they have to face! What's the matter,
Mary? You're touching nothing; and you've lost
all colour!"

"'Tis nothing," said Mary, although she felt very
faint, and dark lines beneath her eyes were evidences of
her night's unrest. "'Tis the awful cold. I never
felt so cold as last night."

"So it was! We must get Mary to keep up the fire
in your bedroom. When it dies out in the morning, the
temperature runs down very low. But, we must send
up at once and inquire after Mr. Rendall. Would
you write a note, Mary?"

"Don't ask me, mother," she said. "We can send
up Allen. I'm sure nothing serious has occurred."

"We cannot know. These Fenians, I'm told, are
always armed. They carry their guns and revolvers
everywhere with them; and I believe this young
Cogan was particularly desperate. But, what a mercy
he's locked up. He cannot do any harm now! Is
there any further news in town, Mary," she said to the
young housemaid, who just then had entered the break-
fast parlour, "about the arrest of Cogan?"

"Oh, there is, Ma'am. They say 'twas awful.
Myles Cogan fought the police; and only they caught
his hand in time. Ma'am, he was whipping out his
revolver to shoot them all dead. And some of the
Fenians, Ma'am, were behind the wall; and they'd
have killed the chief and all the police, Ma'am, only
they had Murphy's covered car, and they drove
Myles Cogan away. And they are sayin', Ma'am — "

"There! I knew it was serious," said Mrs. Carle-

106 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

ton. "Tell Allen at once, Mary, to go and make the
most minute inquiries, with my compliments, about
Mr. Rendall, and to express our hopes that he has
sustained no serious injury."

Edward Carleton was looking towards his daughter,
as if the matter was becoming jocose; but that young
lady's thoughts were evidently elsewhere, because she
was gazing with dilated eyes through the window.
And the housemaid reported in the kitchen, that Miss
Mary was so troubled about the Chief, that she never
touched a bit of breakfast, and looked for all the
world like a ghost. And Allen took his orders meekly
to inquire after Mr. Rendall; but he cursed someone
hotly between his teeth.

It is probable, however, that amongst all those, who
were thunderstruck by the news of the arrest, Halpin
felt the blow most keenly. His feelings towards
Myles were at once of a protective nature; as of an
elder towards a younger brother; and 3^et of a reveren-
tial nature, as of one, who, deeming himself rather
commonplace, looked up to and revered a superior.
If he had any hope of Ireland, it was through the
instrumentality of brave young souls, like Myles Cogan,
her emancipation was to be effected. Of course, he
felt by some prophetic instinct that they would be
both struck down in this unequal struggle with the
might of England. Yet, there was a faint hope that
Myles would escape, and become again an inspiring
factor to a new generation.

After school-hours, during which the boys watched
him with a new interest, he tried to distract himself
with his books, his fiddle, and his dog. These were his
never-failing resources in all periods of mental trouble.
Today they failed him. The history of Ireland, which

A STORY OF '67 107

had always for him a haunting and melancholy
sweetness, this evening took on a dark look, as of a some-
thing that had deepened from mere sadness into mourn-
ing. He thought he saw black bands around the margins
of the pages; and an Alas! at the foot of every page,
as of a story that was marked everywhere by ruin and
failure.

He took up the old violin, and tried to call forth
from its strings some word of hope. No! It sounded
only like the wailing of wind in the chimney, or up
along the brown and barren mountain-sides, where
lost spirits dwell. He laid it down.

"Come here, Bran!"

Bran was the name of Ossian's mighty mastiff, who
was to go with the old Pagan bard into the other world
whether of bliss or horror, and whose bones were to
mingle with his master's in the same grave. This Bran
was a tiny, wiry little terrier, very vicious towards
strangers, very loving of his own. He jumped on
Halpin's knee, and looked into Halpin's face with
those soft brown eyes of his, as if he would, and even
could, penetrate his master's thoughts.

"Bran," said the schoolmaster, slowly, rubbing the
silky ear of the dog, "what a libel art thou on thy
mighty namesake! In what dread moment of sar-
casm did I plant that name upon thee! It means
greatness, little Bran, ferocious strength and swiftness
and endurance, readiness to tackle wolf or bear, or fox,
readiness to die for thy master. And such as thou art,
little Bran, compared with the mighty prototype, even
such are we! For we, too, are degenerate. All our
strength has departed, oozed away through our palsied
hmbs and brains, and left us as helpless towards the
enemy, as thou, little Bran, wouldst be before a raven-

108 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

ing wolf. But, like thee, we can at least be faithful and
loving. For I do read in thy brown eyes, little Bran,
that thou lovest this poor schoolmaster, who owns
thee. Nay, thou wouldst lay down thy little life for
me! And what greater love can be than this?"

He paused, and then laying the dog gently back on
the hearth rug, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote his
will. This he folded, and put away in a drawer.

"It is informal, and unwitnessed except by God,"
he said. "But who would care to fight for all this
rubbish?"

He then put on his overcoat and hat, and, calling
Bran to follow him, he went out into the night.

It was dreadfully cold, a sharp north-easter blowing
up the street, drying up roads and sideways, and dry-
ing up the moist natural heat in the veins of men. A
few groups of men, weatherproof, were gathered around
street corners, discussing the one all-absorbing topic
of Myles Cogan's arrest. They flung out some dark
hints as the schoolmaster passed, and he did not heed
them.

A ballad-singer was trolling out in wavering accents
a verse of John O'Hagan's song, "Dear Land":

" My father died his home beside,

They seized and hanged him there,
His only crime in evil time

Thy hallowed green to wear;
Across the main his brothers twain

Were forced to pine and rue,
But still they turned, with hearts that burned
In hopeless love to you, dear land,
In hopeless love to you!"

A policeman stepped off the sidewalk, and, rudely
hustling the ballad-singer, said:

A STORY OF '67 109

"Stop that at wanst, or I'll run you in!"
But Halpin went on, the words ringing a mournful
threnody in his ears:

" In hopeless love to you, dear land,
In hopeless love to you."

The policeman followed him along the street; and
then left him.

He crossed the bridge and stopped. The river,
Myles' river, that he loved so much in ebb and flood,
in tawny and irresistible strength, or in sparkling and
singing gladness, rolled by swollen and turbid in the
darkness. Here and there, leaning against the lime-
stone parapets, were little groups of two or three, dis-
cussing the one subject of Myles Cogan's arrest.

Halpin passed them by, unrecognised in the darkness.
He went down along the sordid suburb that led towards
Millbank, and paused for a long time before the house,
debating with himself whether he would intrude, and
how he might be received, and what he would say if
Agnes came to him. At length, he made up his mind,
opened the little iron gate, crossed the gravelled path,
and knocked at the door. There was a light in the
dining-room. The little maid opened the door, and
ushered him in. Agnes Cogan was there, and the
priest.

Halpin started back, but the priest said encourag-
ingly:

"Come in, Mr. Halpin. I presume you have come
to see Miss Cogan in her great trial."

The schoolmaster sat down, bewildered. He had
none of the ease and composure with which men of
the world are trained for such difficult situations. He
murmured some commonplace, and was silent.

no THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"The whole question now is," said the priest, as if
continuing a conversation with Miss Cogan, "to find out
why, and on whose information, Myles has been arrested;
and then to get him out on bail."

"Yes, of course," said Agnes, "we must get him
out of that dreadful place at once. Think of last
night! Why, I shivered all night in my own room
with a blazing fire."

"If we could only find out," said the priest, "why,
and on whose informations, he has been arrested, it
would guide us. We are groping in the dark; and, of
course, the police won't help us."

"Isn't there some way of having him brought before
a magistrate and put on trial, and then let out on
bail?" said the poor girl.

"Of course. But that may mean days. It may
mean a week or a fortnight, and meanwhile — "

"Meanwhile, poor Myles will be starved and frozen
to death," said the weeping girl. "Oh, 'tis too
dreadful!"

"It is so strange," said the priest, looking at the
silent schoolmaster, "that Myles alone should have
been arrested. The government must have thought
him a dangerous adversary."

"And he was," said Halpin, breaking silence, "not
for what he could do against England, so much as for
his example."

The priest and the girl looked at him, as if for
explanation.

"Mr. Cogan could do nothing," he continued, —
"if Robert Emmet rose from the dead, he could do
nothing; but fail. But these men are the salt of the
earth. But for such as they, this country of ours
would be as putrid as the Dead Sea."

A STORY OF '67 111

"The cost is too great!" said the priest. "The
salt is more than the meat."

"No!" said Halpin, solemnly. "What is my life,
your life, Myles Cogan's life, compared with even the
temporary redemption of the race? Nothing. Myles
understands. One like him, even one in each genera-
tion, can save the country from putrefaction."

"I'm sure he is great enough to make the sacrifice,"
said the priest, "but what of his friends? They, too,
must suffer."

"And they will, and gladly," said Halpin, looking
at Agnes, and putting a strange emphasis into his
words. "We expect it, and we shall not be deceived."

The priest rose up, and left. Halpin lingered behind*.
He stood opposite the girl, when she returned from
the door.

"I have said too much?" he said, questioningly and
humbly.

"No!" she murmured, extending her hand.

XVII

"Really, Mary," said Mrs. Carleton, a few days
after the arrest, "you must see Dr. Gibson. You're
looking ghastly, and eating nothing, and moping
around — will you see Dr. Gibson? He's very clever!"

"I have no need, mother," she said. "I assure you
I'm not unwell. There's nothing wrong. It may be
the cold weather — "

"Well, then, can't you go out and take a long brisk
walk, and bring back some colour. It makes me quite
uneasy looking at you."

"Yes! But where can one go?" said the girl, pet-
tishly. "You see I have no companions; and 'tis
really tiresome walking alone, and without an object."

"True, and I'm too much rheumatised to accom-
pany you now."

Mrs. Carleton went on with her work; but medi-
tated a good deal. She stopped, made a decision,
revoked it, renewed it, and finally said:

"I don't like you to associate with mere business
people," she said hesitatingly, "but perhaps — the
circumstances are very peculiar — perhaps you might
like to call on that Cogan girl. I dare say she'll be
glad to see you now; and then, you needn't meet that
rebellious young man."

"I didn't like to propose it, Mother," said the young
girl, "knowing it to be against your wishes; but —
poor Agnes — two such trials — coming in such quick
succession — oh! It must be unbearable!"

A STORY OF '67 113

And to her mother's intense surprise, her proud
daughter burst into tears.

"There, there!" said Mrs. Carleton, soothingly.
"Yes, you're right. I should have thought of this
before. Get your hat and coat, and go over; and
if you can persuade Miss Cogan to go out and take a
long walk with you — all the better."

But when Mary did go out, Mrs. Carleton fell into
a brown study, the refrain of which was:

"Well, I never! And I thought I knew every twist
and turn in her character!"

There was an affectionate greeting between the girls;
and Mary Carleton, who had been steeling herself
against all emotionalism, did mingle her tears with
those of her young friend. But these were speedily
dried. The accusing angel came back to her in the
voice of her young friend.

"I shouldn't mind so much," Agnes said, "but
they are saying it is all treachery, that every word
poor Myles said at their meetings went back to the
police; and that some one, who was anxious to get
Myles out of the way, made informations, and com-
pelled the police to arrest him."

Every word was a dagger in her friend's heart; but
she went on unconsciously:

"I don't know what to make of that Mr. Halpin —
the schoolmaster. They are all saying that he is the
informer, and that he was always anxious to get poor
Myles out of the way."

"They are all saying that — are they?" asked her
friend.

"They are. You know servants hear everything;
and Janie here, who has two or three followers amongst

114 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

the — the Fenians, says, that the men are swearing
they'll shoot Halpin, unless Myles is released. There
is to be another rising — "

"Ha!" said Mary Carleton, startled out of her self-
possession. "There is to be another rising? The
fools!"

"Yes ! " continued Agnes, volubly. " But, Mary, you
won't give me away, or tell Mr. Rendall — "

"Agnes, how can you?" said Mary Carleton, in a
tone of reproof and anger.

"Pardon! But everything is so dangerous now,
and you never know when you may be quoted, and
there is so much talk about spies, and traitors, and
informers — "

"And you're afraid you'll be shot some night com-
ing home from confession?"

"No! But then Mr. Halpin was here the other
night—"

"Oh! He called on you?"

"Yes! It was kind; but I didn't expect it. And
Father James was here, and we were talking about
everything; and then Mr. Halpin said, the whole
thing was utterly hopeless — he meant the Fenian
rising — "

"The wretch! And he Head Centre, and dragging
these poor fellows into ruin. I'm glad now that your
brother is in gaol!"

Agnes stared at her friend in astonishment; but
Mary Carleton, feeling now that she had done a noble
thing in saving Myles Cogan's life, was buoyant.

"Oh, but," Agnes said, "he had some queer sayings
about some being sacrificed to save the country from
— from — putrefaction. I think that is the word he
used."

A STORY OF '67 115

** That's all very fine. But, why doesn't he sacri-
fice himself?"

"But, he will, Mary. Surely, if there is a rising,
Mr. Halpin will be killed!"

Mary Carleton looked closely at her young friend.

"Would you be glad to hear it?"

Agnes blushed, looked down at her hands, looked
beseechingly at her friend.

"No!" she said softly.

"But he got your brother deposed from his Head
Centreship, and, the people say, he has betrayed him."

Agnes looked still more bewildered. Her friend
was probing too deeply.

"You don't believe it?" said Mary Carleton.

"No!" said Agnes, almost inaudibly.

"Nor I!" said Mary Carleton. "But on what
grounds do you exculpate Halpin?"

Agnes looked still more shyly at her friend.

"Because," she said at last, "I think Mr. Halpin
looked up to Myles, and worshipped him!"
' " Won't it be dreadful, then, if he is shot as a traitor? "

"It would be, of course. But I think Mr. Hialpin
doesn't mind death. He seems to be anxious for it!"

"He said so?"

"No. He implied it. He seems to feel that we
are all called upon to make sacrifices now."

"Even you?"

" Yes! He seemed to think we should all be martyrs,
and confessors."

"He said so?"

"Yes! He implied that we all have to suflter, and
that we should be glad to do so!"

"A strange man!" said Mary Carleton, musingly.
"I'm sorry I was a little discourteous to him the

116 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

evening I met him here. But, it is so hard to notice
a mere schoolmaster. Is it not?"

"Myles had a great regard for him!"

"And he for Myles! Damon and Pythias again.
I'm afraid these patriots have no room for any love
except among themselves."

She appeared hurt, and rose to go.

"Put on your hat, and your warmest jacket," she
said, "and come along for a furious walk."

That evening, just after nightfall, Halpin was talk-
ing nonsense to his little dog, when a gentle tap was
heard at his door. It was unusual, and it startled
him a little, after Myles Cogan's arrest. The thought
flashed across his mind:

"If they arrest me, what will these poor fellows do?"

But, instead of an officer and his police, a young
lady, tall and closely veiled, stepped into the room.
Bran barked furiously. Halpin placed a chair. But
his visitor declined it. He stood still, in an attitude
of waiting.

"Mr. Halpin," she said, "I must first ask your for-
giveness. I was rude to you at Miss Cogan's a few
nights ago!"

The schoolmaster bowed.

"Miss Carleton could not be rude," he said. "She
only kept her dignity."

"No matter. It is no time for compliments. I
have come on more serious business. I understand
that you are under suspicion from your comrades."

He grew a little pale; but said nothing.

"I even heard your life is in danger."

He grew still paler; and grasped a chair.

"As a traitor?" he said, in a hollow voice.

A STORY OF '67 117

"Yes! Your men have now got hold of the idea
that it was you hung out the black flag the day of the
election; that it was you got Mr. Cogan deposed from
the oflfice of Head Centre; that it was on your infor-
mation he has been arrested."

The schoolmaster was silent, contending with new
emotions.

"It is Fate," he said. "The destiny that ever
follows in the track of those who want to serve Ireland
even at the sacrifice of their lives. I must submit!"

"Of course! But I want to say one word."

She bit her lips, which were drj' and pale.

"If ever the charge of Mr. Cogan's arrest should be
brought against you, say it was I, Mary Carleton,
who contrived it."

"You?" said the schoolmaster. "Impossible?"

"It is true!" she said, whilst the tears welled up in
her eyes. "I was asked — I wanted — to save him;
and there was no other way."

"And you give me permission to defend myself at
your expense?" he asked.

"Yes! I won't have you suffer for me!"

"And you wish me in this way to divert the anger
and suspicions of my comrades to you?"

"Yes! I have nothing to fear!"

"Nor have I!" he said. "You are right, Miss Carle-
ton, however you have procured the information, there
is to be a rising, and I shall be the first to fall. What
matter to me, whether I fall by an English bullet, or
at the hands of my comrades? My life shall be given
for Ireland either way. Therefore your name shall
never pass my lips, except to one; and then only, if
necessary."

"You mean Mr. Cogan?"

118 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Yes! I couldn't bear that he should think me
faithless to him. And besides, he ought to know — "

"That I betrayed him?" she said.

"That you saved him; and — forgive me! I was
near saying something indelicate."

She understood, and held out her hand.

"He will understand!" said the schoolmaster.

XVIII

Snow, snow, snow, everywhere! Broad flakes, black
against the sky, fall silently, but in their countless
myriads on mountain and valley, on the roofs of
houses, on groaning trees, on thoroughfares where
they remain and form a soft woolly mass piled here
and there in hillocks where man or beast may be lost;
and on river and lake or bog-pond where they are
noiselessly swallowed up, and only manifest them-
selves by the swelling of brown torrents that sweep
madly to the sea. Snow is two feet high on the roads;
and a certain horseman has to pick his steps, lest he
should plunge into unseen hollows, and then his deed
of daring should remain unaccomplished for ever; and
snow is on the roofs of the prison where the said horse-
man pulls up hot and tired after his long ride, and
thunders at the wicket, whilst his horse champs his
bit and shakes the cold white flakes from his eyes
and ears. And the snow comes down persistently and
covers the old white head of the gaoler, who crosses
the courtyard, swearing and grumbling at being called
away from his hot fire and his glass of warm toddy on
such a night.

He fumbles with half-frozen hands at the heavy
keys, one of which he selects by lantern-light, fits it
into the lock, and shoots back the bolt. The heavy
iron gate swings to, and a hoarse, strong voice says
in an accent of military command:

"I hold an order for the immediate release of a

120 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

certain Myles Cogan, who is detained here as her
Majesty's prisoner."

''Maybe there are two sides to that question," said
the gaoler, scrutinising the face and form of the
stranger. "Who the devil are you, and where do you
come from?"

The next moment he felt the cold steel of a revolver
pressed against his forehead and heard:

"No palavering or nonsense, you d — d old fool.
Quick, hand me those keys, and show me your prisoner;
or I'll send six bullets through your old carcass."

"Maybe," said the old gaoler, thoroughly frightened,
"there are them that thinks as much of Myles Cogan
as you, whoever you are. But I suppose ye're a govern-
ment officer and wants to take him to the County
Gaol. So I'll bring him to ye! "

He shuffled away; and the stranger, holding his
watch impatiently in his hands, began to count the
seconds. As he did, a ghostly figure seemed to creep
towards him, and a ghostly voice said:

" Up to time, Cap'n! Is all right? "

"All's right! Where's the mare?"

"Around the corner, saddled and bridled and well
fed against the journey!"

"Good! After all, you d — d Irish have something
in you. I only wish I had a drink and a rub down for
this poor nag!" And he stroked the hot, steaming neck
of his horse affectionately.

"That can be had, too," said the voice. "And a
bite and a sup for yourself agin the night. We, d — d
Irish, can do a bit of thinking for ourselves sometimes."

The gaoler and Myles were at his elbow.

"I deliver me pris'ner into your hands," said the

A STORY OF '67 121

gaoler. "But you'll have to give me a formal receipt
or a Habeas Corpus to show the government."

The men laughed, as they grasped hands.

"Good-bye, Mr. Cogan," said the old man, "and
may your journey thry ' with you."

They passed down the narrow lane and knocking at
a wicket sunk in the wall, they entered the back yard
of a public house under the guidance of the man who
had accosted them. From this they entered the
kitchen, where a steaming hot supper was laid out on
the kitchen table.

"There," said the man, "tuck in, officers of the Irish
Republic! Your horses will be ready when ye're done;
I am the Gineral commanding the whole Commis-
sariat Department for the troops!"

The two men laughed, as they sat at supper.

"At least, if you do all your work as well as this,
you may command a certificate from Captain McClure!"

"And you are McClure?" said Myles, enthusiastically,
stretching out his hand and grasping the hand of the
officer across the table.

"I guess I am," said the other. "And now as our
friend said, Tuck in! We have no time to lose. Look
after our horses, Commissary-General, or I'll report
you at headquarters!"

For the man was staring open-mouthed at the
young American officer, whose name was alreadj^ well
known in Ireland as one of the most daring captains
during the Civil War in America.

"And whither are we bound?" said Myles, trying to
eat something through his excitement. "Are the men
out?"

"My orders are sealed orders," said McClure, cau-

1 Thrive.

122 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

tiously. He seemed to be listening for something.
But not a sound broke the stillness of the house. They
could hear the champing in the stables close by.

" But it is the duty of a soldier to look to the present.
I guess you won't get a meal like this for many a long
day. So lay in stores for at least a month. You know
our friend?" And he nodded towards the stables.

"Well!"

"Can he be trusted?"

"As yourself!"

"Good! And the people of the house!"

" All right. The poor old gaoler will get into trouble,
though, when they find their bird has flown."

"He has a good defence. He felt the cold steel on
his forehead."

"What, if he had resisted?"

"I'd have sent a bullet through his forehead."

Myles shuddered, and looked inquiringly at the
slight figure and pale face before him.

"Don't shiver," said McClure, encouragingly.
"You'll have to steel your nerves against such little
incidents as that. It was not to play hide and seek
we came over here!"

The men ate and drank in silence, Myles mindful
of the admonition that he was commencing a soldier's
life.

Then their host came in.

"Your horses are ready, gintlemin," he said.

" Very good," said McClure. " One moment, please!"
and he waved the publican away.

He took out a cigar and lit it, and smoked some
time in silence.

"A word with you, Cogan!" he said, "before we
go!"

A STORY OF '67 123

He paused, and then said:

" Let us be open and candid. Can your men be
trusted?"

"I don't understand. In what way?" said Myles.

"Will any of them sell the pass?"

"Not one! There's not a man in the Brotherhood,
who is not prepared to meet death for his country's
sake!"

"Good! But they have never been under fire.
Will they run, do you think, when they hear the zip,
zip! the tearing sound of the bullets?"

"Not a man. They are prepared to face anything!"

"Good!"

"They are badly-armed, badly-fed, they have no
cavalry, no artillery, but strong arms and stout hearts."

" And you expect to beat the same armies that chased
the French all over the Peninsula, and smashed up
Napoleon at Waterloo?"

Myles shook his head.

"The men do!" he said. "We don't!"

"But the Republic — the Irish Republic?" queried
the officer.

"That's a dream — a phantasm!"

"Then, damn it, what are you fighting for?"

"To save Ireland!" said Myles.

"From what?"

"The men believe from England; we believe, from
putrefaction!"

McClure pondered a little.

"'Tis a Quixotic idea; but there's something in it.
You think blood must be shed?"

"Yes! Nothing else can save the country but the
salt of blood!"

"But is the country worth it?"

124 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"How can you ask? I would give fifty, Halpin a
hundred, lives to save Ireland!"

"Halpin? Who is he?"

"Head Centre of our district and in command of
all our forces!"

"But I mean in private life?"

"A schoolmaster!"

"I understand. You are going out as martyrs,
not as soldiers! 'Tis absurd, but, by Heaven, it is
glorious. I'm with you to the end."

He flung the end of his cigar into the fire, and looked
at his watch.

"There's no time to lose," he said. "Let us go!"

Their host brought out their horses, well-fed and
groomed against the night-ride. They mounted,
Myles imitating his comrade by slinging and then
strapping a Winchester rifle across his shoulders and
fastening a revolver in his belt. Then, with a "Good-
night!" and a "good luck," they trotted out slowly
into the street. The church-clock, down in the town,
was just chiming the quarters; and a second after the
hour of midnight was spoken to the sky.

XIX

They had to go quietly through the streets, for the
soft, velvety snow yielded too easily to their horses'
hoofs, and enemies might be around. But when they
left the town, and ascended the hill, they were able to
move more quickly, especially on the summits where the
fierce gusts of wind had swept the roads bare, even
though the snow continued to fall. Four miles from
the town they pulled up at a forge, and knocked.
There was some demur on the part of the people inside;
but the watchword "Aughrim" speedily unlocked the
door.

"See after our horses' hoofs, Dan!" said Myles, when
the first greetings were over. "We have many a
rough mile before us!"

"Yes! and many a danger," said the man. "The
dragoons passed here an hour ago; and d — d uncivil
customers they were."

Myles and McClure exchanged glances. The latter
took a parchment-scroll and a map from his pocket;
and held it up, after breaking the seal against the
forge fire.

"Slieve-Ruadh!" he read. "That's our destina-
tion; and we must be there before morning. Can we
do it?"

"'Tis a good twenty miles!" said the smith. "Up
hill and down valley, and as cross a country as ever
ye travelled."

126 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"But surely we can do five miles an hour," said
Myles, "and that will bring us there at five o'clock, if
we don't miss our way."

"Faith then, Masther Myles, but that's likely enough,
too."

"I know the place; but I don't know the roads,"
said Myles. "Let us see the map, Captain!"

They examined the ordnance map carefully. Roads
seemed to branch off in every direction. Yet there
were the worm-like dark lines that marked the summit
of Slieve-Ruadh, there was the river flowing beneath
to the Shannon. It seemed such a small span of
country — such as might be ridden over at a fox-hunt.

They talked the matter over, whilst the smith was
kniving and frosting the horses, and greasing the
interior of their hooves lest they should pick up snow-
balls by the way.

"Don't make light of it, Master Myles!" he said.
"It will be a straight run to hounds ontil ye mount.
Knock-a-inhuic; and thin, ye have a vallej'^ before
ye, where no road was ever made except by the goats
since Adam; and then ye have a stiff climb up this
side of Slieve-Ruadh, before ye descind into the valley."

"Well, there's no time to spare, I guess!" said
McClure. "How much, my man?"

"Divil a penny to ye!" said the smith. "Don't I
know what ye're bint on, as well as yereselves. Banaith-
lath! And may no divil of a Sassenach ever lay his
hands on ye!"

They spurred again into the night; and now a faint
moonlight spread across the sky, which made their
journey easier, whilst the snow, still falling swiftly,
concealed them from prying eyes that were sure to be
watching for such as they that night.

A STORY OF '67 127

At last, they cantered through a lonely village.
The lights were all out; and the snow lay in heaps on
the thatched roofs. They were drawing in a little
to ease their horses, when a sudden gleam of light,
which reddened the snow before them, suggested to
Myles that they were just about to pass the Constab-
ulary barracks, where every man would be on the
alert.

"Spur for your life!" he whispered to McClure;
and both horsemen dashed forward at a gallop. For-
tunately, the heavy snow had deadened the noise of
their approach; but their swift and suspicious flight
athwart the windows of the barracks roused the men.

The riders heard behind them the command:

"Halt! Halt! there!" and the next moment a rifle-
bullet whizzed between them. They heard its soft
thud, as it struck a tree by the wayside.

"Good!" said Myles, without slackening his speed.
"I can say at least that I have been under fire!"

McClure was silent. He was contrasting in his
mind wild, dare-devil rides such as this across the
plains of Georgia, down by Atlanta, under the walls of
Richmond; but oh! how different! Then he had
scores of gallant comrades beside him, whose wild
laughter rang out above the jinghng of spurs, or the
musical rattle of chain-bridles, or the clank of sabres;
and, behind him, were massed the myriads of the
North, fully-equipped, and under the command of
experienced generals. There, if they carried their
lives in their hands, at least they would meet an
honourable death, without fear of the hangman's
noose; and, if they came out of the battle un-
scathed, why, there were epaulettes and gold lace and
honour. But here was a solitary comrade, who had

128 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

never heard a shot fired in anger until two minutes
ago; and there were a gang of poor, unarmed peasants,
who were going to fight with pitchforks and pikes the
trained armies of the Empire. He actually laughed
outright at the absurdity.

"That's the first time you have heard the whizz of
a bullet?" he said to Myles.

"Yes!" said Myles. "I know the rattle of duck-
shot on an autumn morning; but that seems different
somehow!"

"Rather. And if you heard the scream of a shell
above your head; or the rattle of grape, Uke hailstones
on a glass roof — what then?"

"A man has only one Hfe," said Myles, proudly.
"What matter whether he gets his skull open by a
sabre cut; or is torn up by a bullet. 'Tis all the
same!"

"So it is! so it is!" said McClure. "And whether
a man gives up his life, fighting for the emancipation
of an American nigger, or to make these poor devils
of Irishmen into men — isn't it all the same?"

"We're too far gone to discuss the matter," said
Myles, with a Uttle show of anger. " We have to face
what's before us; and talk about reason and motive
hereafter."

"Well said," answered McClure. "But I'm just
thinking what hay-eating asses the miUtary here must
be to leave such a road as this unpatrolled and unam-
bushed at such a time."

He had scarcely uttered the word when a black
figure seemed to start up out of the ground before
them, and to swing his arms in a warning manner.
They drew up, and, with the instinct of a soldier,
McClure put his hand on his revolver.

A STORY OF '67 129

"Good-night, gintlemin!" said the apparition.

"Go to the devil, man," said McClure, angry at
being stopped.

"Begor, maybe you'd be there before me, av I didn't
stop ye!" was the reply.

"Well, well, what's the matter?" said McClure.

"The matther is this," said the peasant, leisurely.
"There's a crass road a mile a head o' ye. Av ye takes
the road to the right, ye'll soon come up with a squad-
ron of dragoons, and maybe ye'll put 'em to flight, or
maybe they'd sind ye where you were polite enough
to sind me. Av ye takes the middle road, it will

take ye into C , where the red-coats have a hoult of

the railway, and the peelers are waltzing up and down
the shthreets. But av ye takes the road to the left,
it will lade ye to the Hill of the Black Pig, and from
there ye may see yere comrades. Good-night! and
God be wid ye en yere journey!"

"A queer people!" said McClure. "They seem to
know everything. But they're a trifle tough and long
winded!"

"They're as true as steel!" said Myles.

"Don't tell me that, Cogan!" said McClure. "I
know them better than you."

They were silent henceforward, until, as the morning
dawned, the snowstorm thinned out into tiny flakes,
then into sleet, then lifted itself up, and sped towards
the mountains, and they saw a level plain before them,
and the view was bounded by a slight elevation, snow-
capped also, which they guessed was the Hill of the
Black Pig.

They were now exposed to observation from every
side; but they rode along the face of a high plateau;
and from the plains beneath they could hardly be

130 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

seen. They slowly mounted the shght acclivity; the
road suddenly ceased; and they gazed down at a long,
deep valley through which a black river was cutting
its way. Here and there a village arose, only visible
as a huge snow-ball in the morning light. A few trees
masked the homes of prosperous farmers; across the
valley the ground rose up precipitously, the mountain
having the appearance of having been sheared perpen-
dicularly from the summit downward. The glen over
which they now stood, sloped down at a very sharp
angle. It was covered Avith rocks and heather, which
now made hillocks of snow. Black spots here and
there marked deep bogholes; and they judged from
the ground beneath them that the surface of the glen
was shifting and sUppery shingle. No trace of road
or passage was observable, but after some delay and
close examination, they thought they had found a foot-
path, which was the only possible way of descent.

Slowly and carefully, their horses' bridles hanging
loosely over their arms, they moved down the hillside,
wisely leaving the animals to themselves.

"What a mark for a rifle-shot we make now," said
McClure. "Black specks on a white ground. Even
the Enghsh could not miss us!"

Stumbling, sKpping, sliding, now kneedeep in a
hidden boghole, which was lightly covered with un-
melted snow, now knocking against a hidden boulder,
they made the perilous descent; and when they
emerged on the high road, the two men were bathed
in perspiration, and their horses' flanks were white
with sweat.

An old woman, standing at the door of a rude and
ruined cabin, stared at them, her withered hands
shading her eyes from the white glare.

A S'lt)RY OF 'G7 131

"You're up early, granny," said McClure.

"I am, agragal, and so are ye," she said. "I was
just making a cup of tay agin the cowld mornin'."

"And a good thing to do," rejoined McClure.
"What would you say if we joined you in drinking it?"

"An' welkum — and welkum, a hundred times,"
she said. "But sure ye're the bould min intirely to be
shtandin' out there, an' the sojers and peelers at the
other side of the hill."

"True for you," said McClure. "But in war, we
must take our chances."

"If I were ye," said the old woman, lowering her
voice, "I'd take thim horses of yeres here behind the
shelter of the ould cabin, an' I'll have the tay ready
for ye, when ye comes in."

They saw the wisdom of it; and pulled round the
wretched building. Here they were out of observa-
tion, except fromthe;hill from which they had descended.

A bowl of tea and a junk of home-made bread re-
vived them. They put a coin on the rough deal
table.

"No, no, no!" said the old woman, "I know ye, and
where ye're goin' this blessed mornin'. May God be
wid ye, and bring ye safe."

But McClure persisted.

"'Tisn't for the tea and bread I'm giving it to
you," he said; "but as a keepsake to remember two
Fenians."

She grabbed the coin, and kissed it passionately,
then rubbed it in her apron.

"I'll keep it," she said, "I'll keep it; an' 'twill be
the cowld and hungry day when I part with it. But
I'll hang it round httle Patsey's neck; and tell him
where it kem from."

132 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

They drew out their horses into the main road; and
were about to leave, when McClure said:

"The devil! We never thought of asking how we
are to climb that wall. Come here, Granny! Is
there a road, or a ladder, or any way, where we can get
over that hill yonder."

"There is," she said. "Half a mile down the road,
ye'll come to an ash-tree on the right. Turn sharp,
and ye'll shtrike on the main road that runs through
Slieve Ruadh. And thin — "

"Well, what then?"

"Take care of yereselves, when ye gets out an the
top. The byes heard firing down to the esht this
mornin' airly; there's bad work goin' on there. Banath-
lath!"

" Banath-lath!^' said the men, as they slowly passed
down the road.

True enough, at the end of half a mile, there was a
high ash-tree, and, turning sharply, they ascended the
public road that led over the mountain. Vast quarries
of red sandstone, whence the mountain took its name,
were on their right hand, and on their left. They
saw the deep scars everywhere left by pick and powder.
Then, almost before they expected it, they crested the
hill; and a vast, snow-covered plain, extending for
miles, lay before them.

XX

The sharp crack of rifles from a plantation of fir-
trees, far down on the left hand, was borne to their
ears on the cold, frosty air.

"Dismount at once!" said McClure, "and keep on
the right flank of your horse. And I shall go forward
twenty paces or so. Go slowly, and let them think
these are mountain nags out for an early airing."

They dismounted, and led the horses slowly along
the high road. Then McClure, still holding the
horse's bridle, stepped into a deep hollow, where he
could not be seen; and taking out a field-glass, he
scrutinised hill and valley carefully.

"The fighting is going on in that plantation," he
said. "The men on both sides are hidden from view,
and the river runs between them; but a lot of fellows
are scurrying away over the mountains. Can they
be scouts or pickets, I wonder, or — "

He looked inquiringly at Myles, whose face showed
marked signs of anxiety.

"They may be the peelers, drawing in around the
wood," he said.

"No!" said McClure. "They are in bodies of three
or four men; and they are running up the mountain
side, and then disappearing."

He replaced the glass, saying:

"No matter. We must give them a look-in!"

They passed down the hill more rapidly, and turned

134 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

sharply to the left. A farmer's house stood near the
road. The man was calmly smoking in his doorway.

"Must be a lot of woodcock around here?" said
McClure. "They're potting away the game, Uke
mad."

"Yaos!" drawled the farmer. "Well for the game
if they had wings to fly, I guess!"

"Yank?" said McClure.

"No! Irish!" said the man. "But, perhaps, ye're
goin' to take a hand," as he watched the rifles, and the
caparison of the horses. "I guess that shootin'-iron
of yours was never made in this country. It has a
look of Waltham about it."

"Look here!" said McClure. "You know a thing
or two. I am McClure, Captain McClure of the
9th "

The man's pipe fell from his mouth, and was broken,
as he leaped forward, and grasped the officer's hand.

"Tare-an-ages, man," hesaid. "McClure! McClure!
Why, we fought side by side, at Fredericksburg. And
what the devil are you doin' here?"

"Captain!" said Myles. "Our fellows are under
fire yonder. Let us hurry on!"

"True!" said the Captain. "How can we reach
the Fenians?"

"An' yere goin' to fight a regiment of infantry, and
a squadron of peelers with two guns; for the fellows
yonder have only spades and pikes. Well, I'm
jiggered!"

"You won't tell on them?" said Myles. "Well,
don't give us away, anyhow!"

"No, sonny, I won't," said the farmer. "That
ain't my way. An' if yere so bent on throwing away
yere lives, wal, there is a boreen a few hundred yards

A STORY OF '67 135

further on. Get in there, and move along; and, I
guess, ye'll soon see the red tunics, and hear the rip-
ping of the bullets. But, oh! McClure, McClure!"
And he turned away.

Myles was growing impatient, and hurried on. Sure
enough down the road a boreen turned off at a sharp
angle from the road. They followed it for a httle
distance; and then, leaving their horses tethered to
a fir-tree, they crept along under shelter of the high
ditch, which was topped with furze and white thorn;
and soon they reached an open space, where they
reconnoitred. To the left was a thin plantation of
fir-trees, and they could see the splinters and branches
falling, as the EngUsh bullets cut them. A deep
river rolled darkly in front. Across the r ver was a
spacious upland, dotted here and there by the red
coats of the infantry, w^hilst an occasional puff of
smoke showed that the soldiers too were ambushed
away in a thick wood on the other side. The firing
from the soldiers was intermittent, but constant.
No volleys, but single shots fired rapidly into the
plantation. From the plantation, the firing had
almost ceased. Now and again, a rifle rang out, and
a bullet whizzed across the river. Then there was a
pause.

"Few men there!" whispered McClure, "or their
ammunition is giving out."

They waited a few moments. Then, a few shots
rang in rapid succession from the soldiers, and McClure
cried:

"Now, one brave dash across the open."

They crossed without accident; and found them-
selves in a thick plantation, mostly planted with young
fir-trees, although here and there, the big boles of older

136 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

trees gave adequate shelter. A high ditch bounded
the wood on the south; and just outside it, the swollen
river, looking black against the dazzling whiteness of
the snow, rolled turbidly along. Not a soul was to be
seen. They proceeded cautiously, bending low, for
the bullets were crashing over their heads. They then
paused to listen. A sharp crack near at hand brought
them in another direction; and there, lying flat against
the ditch, his rifle protruding above, and just now
smoking after the discharge, was Halpin. Myles
advanced towards him.

"Halpin, you?" he said. "Where are the men?"

"Lie down, Ue down, at once," he repUed. "Whom
have you brought?"

"McClure!" said Myles. "Captain, this is our
Head Centre, Mr. Halpin."

" Let me beg of you both to lie flat against the ditch,"
said Halpin. " Ha! I see you have your rifles. There's
the objective. Keep firing whilst we talk."

And promptly, the two men pushed forward their
guns, and sent a dozen bullets across the river. It
was so sudden, the troops, who were kneeUng here
and there, in open formation, ran for shelter to the
wood; and a young officer rode out to reconnoitre.

"But, Halpin, where are the men? Where are the
Fenians? Do you mean that you are fighting alone?"

"Quite alone!" said Halpin, quietly. "The fellows
had only a fowling-piece or two. There was an abun-
dance of pikes. I saw it was hopeless, and I dismissed
them, just as I shall now dismiss you!"

"There are two sides to that question," said Myles.
McClure was popping away, as fast as his rifle could
be loaded. He seemed to enjoy the sport of shooting
at the red-coats.

A STORY OF '67 137

"No!" said Halpin. "There is only one side. Ye
had no right to come here; and must leave at once!"

"We thought you had a thousand men here," was
the answer.

"So I had. But what avail were they against two
hundred armed and trained? They were no use here,
except to get fired at. If I took them into the open
on the charge, half would have been shot down. But
now, quick! You and McClure must go!"

"Yes, I see," said Myles. "McClure must go!
His Ufe is too valuable to be thrown away. But, why
haven't the soldiers crossed over and arrested you,
or shot you, as would be more likely?"

"They think the wood is full of men; and that
we are trying to decoy them. If they thought there
were only three here, they would be down on us in a
moment."

"But they must find it out?"

"Of course, and soon. Your rifles keep them busy
now; but we can't keep it up. And, therefore, you
both must go, Captain McClure?"

"Yes!"

"You know it is the duty of a soldier not to throw
away his life unnecessarily?"

"I do."

"Well, if you remain here half an hour longer, you
will be shot; or you have the scaffold before you!"

"I understand!"

"Then go back the way you came! There is time
yet."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then, I step over that ditch, and get twenty
English bullets through me!"

"And Cogan?"

138 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Let him decide for himself. But you must go."

McClure stepped aside, and seemed to be brushing
away something from his eyes.

He grasped Halpin's hand.

"You're right/' he said. "A man mustn't throw
away his hfe. I can do a Uttle harm yet. But, if
ever I get back to the States, I'll tell them there that
I have seen the two Goddarnedest fools, but the two
bravest men, on this old tub of the earth."

He slid away, and got safely under shelter, where
the horses were. He loosened both bridles, and let
Myles Cogan's horse free. Then he led his own care-
fully away.

He had already reached the end of the boreen,
when he heard shouts from the plantation.

"That's the end!" and he put spurs to his horse.

It was. In an incautious moment, Halpin exposed
himself, and a bullet passed through his right lung.
Myles heard the fall and the thud of the rifle on the
snow. He ran to help his fallen comrade, when he
found himself pinioned from behind; and with the
irons on his hands and ankles he was flung violently
on the snow.

XXI

The police, seeing the men fleeing over the moun-
tain, had crept around cautiously, and surrounded
the wood. Then they had closed in, stepping from
tree to tree, and making no noise on the soft snow.
They were within a few feet of Myles and Halpin
when the bullet struck the latter. The rest was easy.

They beckoned to the soldiers across the river, who
speedily crossed. The young officer rode up; and the
men, grounding their arms, stood to attention. Then
gazing around him, the officer said:

"Where are the rebels?"

A policeman pointed to the prostrate men.

"But the main bulk of them? There must have
been a few hundred men here at least. Disperse, men,
and search every inch of the wood."

The men dispersed in every direction. The officer
dismounted, and, holding his horse's bridle, came over
to where Myles and Halpin were lying. He took out
a notebook and pencil.

"Your names?"

"My name is Cogan; my dying comrade is Halpin."

"Dying?"

"Yes! He's shot through the right lung."

Halpin was lying back, leaning somewhat to the
right side. He was spitting blood, which made rings
of red on the snow.

"Where are your men?"

"I don't know. They were dispersed an hour ago."

140 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Damn it! Do you mean that we have been fight-
ing two men for the last hour?"

"One!" said Myles. "I am here only a few minutes."

The ofiicer looked thoroughly ashamed. Myles said:

"I beg pardon. My comrade is dying. Let me say
a few words to him, before he passes away."

The officer at once gave the order that the irons
were to be taken off. The police murmured:

"A most dangerous Fenian! He was in gaol; and
must have broken out."

"No matter," said the young officer, angrily. He
was furious at the thought that one man had kept
them at bay for an hour. "A half regiment of British
infantry and a hundred constabulary should be able
to hold him. Let him speak to his comrade!"

Myles knelt down; and bent his head low over the
dying man. He heard the words:

"A priest, and at once!"

He approached the officer.

"My friend and I are Roman Cathohcs. He is
djdng. It is of supreme importance that he should
have the services of a priest. Would you send for
one?"

"Where? How far?"

"The town of T is only two miles distant. One

of your men could go, and say, 'a man is dying. Come
quickly!'"

The men had come back looking ashamed and crest-
fallen.

"The ground was well trampled," said the sergeant,
"but not a man could be found!"

"Look here, Hopkins," said the officer, "this poor
fellow wants a priest. The place is two miles distant.
Who is our smartest runner?"

A STORY OF '67 141

" Gatehead, Sir ! But the snow? — "

"Quite so. Look here!" he cried, dismounting.
"Take my horse, and ride as rapidly as you can.
What will the Sergeant say?" he queried, turning to
Myles.

"Simply say to the first man you meet, 'A man is
shot at the foot of Slieve Ruadh, and wants a priest
immediately.'"

"Very good! Go ahead, Hopkins, and lose no
time!"

Myles went back to Halpin, and knelt down. The
dying man said feebly:

"Water!"

And at once the men ran to the river, and filled
their canteens. He took a long draught of the clear,
cold water. It seemed to revive him. One of the
soldiers approached the ofiicer, and said something
in a low tone. The oflScer nodded; and four of the
men, taking off their great coats, came over, and Ufting
the dying Fenian made a bed for him on the snow.

The tears started to his eyes.

"Thanks, comrades!" he said.

Then seeing the blood all around on the snow, he
whispered to Myles:

"I'm luckier than Sarsfield. This is shed for
Ireland!"

There was a long pause. Then the orderly, and a
young priest on horseback, rode up, and the latter,
rapidly dismounting, knelt on the snow near the dying
man, and administered the last Sacraments. When
he had finished, Halpin begged Myles to approach
Halpin took out his beads; and then fumbling a little
in his vest, he found what appeared to be a little silver
cup. It was a medal of the Immaculate Conception,

142 THE GRAVES AT KILMCRNA

which a bullet had struck, and glanced off. Halpin
gave both to Myles, and then added his prayer-book,
which was stained with blood.

" My rehcs! " he said, smiUng. "I'm growing fainter.
A Uttle more water!"

He revived again; and said to Myles:

"Do you know who got you arrested at home?"

"No!" said Myles, curiously.

"You know the men suspected me?"

"I heard so; but you know, Halpin, I never
believed such a thing! It was that cad, Rendall!"

"Of course. But what induced Rendall to arrest
you?"

"I don't know!"

"It was Miss Carleton!"

"Miss— Mary Carleton?"

"Yes! I'm growing very weak. Is the priest
there?"

"Yes!"

"Ask him to remain to the end!"

The priest was only too wiUing.

"Miss Carleton," gasped Halpin, "knew there was
to be a rising; and she wanted to save your Ufe. There
was no other way!"

"You know this for certain, Halpin?" said Myles,
who was choking with emotion.

"I had it from her own Ups. She called on me!
Ask the priest to come here!"

The priest came over; and there was a little con-
ference with the dying man. He beckoned Myles
again to approach.

"My will is in the cupboard in my room. Tell the
priest it will be found there, and to give my belong-
ings to the person indicated. Lean down!"

A STORY OF '67 143

Myles bent down to catch the last breath of the
dying man.

"Tell Agnes — your sister — "

"Yes, yes!" said Myles.

"Tell Agnes that—"

He stopped; and Myles, gazing at him, saw the grey
shadow cross his face. Halpin was dead.

After a few minutes of respectful silence, the officer
ordered the men to fall in. Myles approached the
priest, and, taking out the beads, and prayer-book,
and medal of the dead patriot, he handed them to the
latter, saying:

"These are the sacred relics of my dead comrade,
which I cannot keep. His will is in the cupboard in
his room. Perhaps you would write to Father James

of K and explain all. And I'm sure I may

leave his obsequies in your hands. But, he is to be
buried in our grave-plot, and nowhere else."

"That you may, my poor fellow," said the priest.
"Good-bye! God knows I'm sorry for you both.
I'll write your wishes to Father James."

They shook hands, and parted. A few seconds
after, Myles, under a strong escort of police, and with
his hands manacled behind his back, was marched
across the open glade, which he had crossed but half an
hour before. He looked with some curiosity at the fir-
tree, where McClure and himself had tethered their
horses, and thought.

"Half an hour ago, I was a free man, able to go
where I pleased. Now, my foot is on the scaffold."

The Irish-American who had accosted them was
again at his own door smoking. He seemed to look
on unconsciously. Myles did not notice him. A nod
would have meant another arrest. The man went

144 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

back to his fire, and remained there a long time medi-
tating. Then he rose up, and went out.

"Yes, darned fools," he said aloud, "but, there is
a hope for a race that can beget such men." Half
an hour later, as he stood again at his door, he saw
that far down, where the boreen cut the road, a funeral
procession was approaching. A priest was in front,
reciting the prayers for the dead.

"Ha!" said the farmer. "I guessed all that shoot-
ing wasn't for nothing."

The procession stopped on the road. Four men
bore on their shoulders a door, on which the dead
body of the Fenian was laid. They stopped, and
the priest said:

"We have to wake this poor fellow here, Mr. Lom-
bard. Will you take him in till tomorrow?"

"Are there no more?" the man queried.

"No more. I'll send out everything this evening."

"And they were firing since five o'clock this morn-
ing. I thought they had killed a thousand at least.
Come in! Come in!"

They waked the dead patriot with all solemnity; and
two days after, they bore him on their shoulders from
hamlet to hamlet, up hill and down hollow — a silent
phalanx of five hundred men, until they placed him in
the resting-place of the Cogans, where one day Myles
hoped to rest, side by side, with his dead comrade.

All that day, in his native town, the escape of Myles
Cogan was the one subject of conversation. The
wildest reports were afloat.

"A thousand Fenians, armed to the teeth, had sur-
rounded the gaol, and had threatened to burn it to
the ground."

A STORY OF '67 145

"Old Tobin was shot dead, because he refused to
give up the keys of the gaol."

"Ladders had been put up against the gaol walls;
and fifty Fenians had broken in and rescued Myles."

And so on. But the daring escape and the rising
had wrought popular imagination up to a high pitch
of excitement in the town; and every minute seemed
too long until some news should come in about what
everyone felt would be the momentous events of that
day.

In the afternoon, news began to filter in, exaggerated
and grotesque as usual. "The Fenians had conquered,
and routed the British forces, and were now marching
on Limerick." "The Fenians were beaten and scat-
tered"; "a battle was raging all day on the slopes
of SUeve Ruadh, and Myles Cogan had done won-
ders"; "barracks were burned down all over the
country," etc.

Late in the afternoon Father James strolled up to
the police barrack to make inquiries. The Serjeant
took him in to the day-room.

"It is against the regulations, Father," he said.
"But keep it quiet."

He pointed to a pink telegram that was pinned on
a green baize cloth, that hung against the wall.

It ran:

"Slight engagement at SUeve Ruadh. Rebels fled at
first fire. One man, Halpin, shot dead. Another, Cogan,
sent on in irons to County Gaol."

That was all.

"How, in the name of God, am I to break it to that
poor child?" the priest said.

But he did, gently and quietly, as God gave him
to do.

146 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

The next day, he had a letter from his confrere,
telling all, and enclosing the Uttle relics, and stating
that Halpin's funeral would reach the town at such
an hour; and he was to be buried at Myles Cogan's
request in their plot.

And so, late the next evening, a torchlight procession
came up the long street, the flare lighting up the fronts
of shop and villa with its flickering red. Tramp,
tramp, went the sound of many feet on road and pave-
ment, whilst not a sound, not even a prayer, was
whispered amongst the ranks of the mourning multi-
tude. The little graveyard was filled; and thousands
of faces were turned towards the priest, who, after
reciting the prayers for the dead, folded his stole, and,
whilst the tears rolled down his cheeks, said in a broken
voice:

" The first act in the latest drama in Ireland is over.
One brave man, with an EngUsh bullet in his breast,
lies here beneath our feet. Another is in irons, with
no prospect before him but the scaffold. It was by
Mr. Cogan's orders that the body of his comrade
should be laid where their dust shall commingle. God
pity the living, as He has had mercy on the dead."

He turned aside, when the vast crowd had dispersed,
and, after a silent prayer, he entered the Main Street,
and turning sharply a corner he passed into the narrow
lane, where Halpin lodged. He found that the poUce
had been before him; and had ransacked the whole
place, but found nothing. The old fiddle, and the few
books they did not touch. There were no documents.

"He left at least one paper?" said the priest, inter-
rogatively.

"He did, your reverence! and here it is," the old
woman said. "Sure I was before them there. How

A STORY OF '67 147

did I know but that it might get Master Myles or
someone else into throuble."

The priest took it, looked at the superscription,
and put it in his pocket.

"Take care of those few things," he said, "until
we know to whom he has left them. Hallo, who's
here?"

On the schoolmaster's bed, his httle dog. Bran,
was lying. He looked up at the priest in a pitiful
way, and moaned.

"There he is for the last three days," said the old
woman, "and he won't titch bit, bite, or sup for me,
but moaning and groaning. Don't tetch him, yer
reverence, for I think he's out of his mind!"

But the priest stroked the little animal gently,
rubbing his ears, scratching his neck, and forehead,
and talking gently to him.

"Get me a drop of milk!" he said.

The woman brought the milk. The priest dipped
his fingers in it, and then rubbed them gently across
the Httle creature's lips. Instinctively, the latter put
out his tongue and Ucked the priest's fingers. But
at once he turned aside, and would touch no more,
but moaned sadly.

The priest took him up in his arms.

"He wants his master!" he said.

Flinging a wing of his cloak around the dog, he
went back along the street to the graveyard. The
night had fallen, but there was a brilliant March
moon, which shone on the white desert of snow around
him. He looked around. No one was near. He
crossed the graveyard to where the dark grave of the
buried patriot showed black against the snow. The
httle animal, who up to then had shown scarcely signs

148 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

of life, leaped in his arms. He put him down and
stood aside, leaning against a railing. The dog ran
round whimpering, then lifting up his head, he barked
furiously, and tore at the sods of earth that covered
the grave. Then exhausted, he lay down and moaned.
Again and again, he tried to tear up the earth, only
to sink back worn and half-dead. The priest ap-
proached to call him away, but the poor beast would
not stir, but lay with his head against the wet grass,
which he sometimes hcked with his tongue, but always
moaning. The priest was about to go away, hoping it
would follow him, when the Httle creature, in one last
paroxysm of affection, again attempted to tear up
the earth. After one or two efforts, he rolled down
the slight mound and lay still at the bottom in the
snow. The priest went over, and called him by his
name, and rubbed down his wet coat. But it was in
vain. Bran was dead upon his master's grave.

For a long time the priest looked on at that mourn-
ful scene, and pondered. Then, looking around, he
saw leaning up against the huge trunk of a beech-tree
a spade and mattock, which the Sexton had left behind.
Silently, he opened a few sods on the top of the Fenian's
grave, and excavated the earth so as to form a tiny
hollow. There he placed poor little Bran, closed up
the grave and replaced the sods.

"The people would never forgive me if they knew
it," he said.

And then he added:

"But God will!"

XXII

Myles Cogan was in the dock in Limerick Court-
house. His fine figure towered a Uttle even above the
stalwart constables who surrounded him. The court
was thronged with people. The Bar on both sides was
largely represented. The SoUcitor-General, Serjeant
Holloway, led the prosecution. Isaac Butt was the
leader for the defence. The former had pressed the
charge of treason-felony against the prisoner without
venom, but with all the zeal of one who had got a good
thing from the Government of the country, and was
anxious to show how he deserved it. The fine face of
Isaac Butt was bathed in tears when he sat down after a
two hours' speech marked by singular force and all the
eloquence of deep feeUng. But everyone felt that
the case was hopeless, so far as any legal defence could
be made. The facts were indisputable; and the charge
of treason-felony, of having administered illegal oaths,
and being taken, arms in hand, in open rebellion
against the constituted authorities of the country,
could not be rebutted. The Solicitor-General wound
up the case for the prosecution in a half-careless
manner, as one quite sure of his verdict; and the
Judge addressed the Jury in a manner that left no
hope. On the three points submitted to the Jury:

" Was prisoner a sworn member of an illegal organisa-
tion, which had for its object the subversion of her
Majesty's authority in this country?

150 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

" Had prisoner administered illegal oaths?

"Had prisoner been found in open armed rebellion
against the Crown? "

The verdict was, Yes!

The usual question was put to the prisoner by the
Clerk of the Crown and Peace, whether he had any-
thing to say why sentence of death should not be
passed upon him; and Myles, leaning forward a little,
said in a modest tone, but in a voice that could be
heard to the farthest end of the Court:

''My Lord,

"You ask why sentence of death should not be
passed on me by your Lordship as representing the
Government of England in this country. From a
purely legal standpoint, I have no defence to make.
I have deliberately broken the laws of this country
called England, which claims supreme authority over
this, my country. That authority, I, following the
example of thousands of my fellow-countrymen,
solemnly repudiate. I admit no rights of conquest,
nor can I believe that a government, established
through fraud, rapine, and murder, can ever right-
eously claim the allegiance of an unwilhng people. It
might happen, perhaps it has happened in the course
of human history, that a conquered race has been
brought, by the operation of just and kindly laws, to
acknowledge the suzerainty of the power that sub-
dued it. But six hundred years of domination are
assuredly a fair trial; and I need not remind your
Lordship and the Court that today the Irish people
are as opposed to English power in this country as
when Strongbow and Ireton brought their mailed
warriors, or rather filibusterers, to dethrone our Irish
kings and bring them under the heel of the Plantag-

A STORY OF '67 151

enets. That fact alone is a final verdict against the
righteousness of English domination in Ireland. There
is no appeal from the voice of a nation."

The Judge murmured something to the effect that
he was traveUing outside the question and talking
treason. Myles continued smilingly:

"The sentiment, or rather the principle, is not mine,
my Lord. At this moment some EngUsh papers are
using stronger language to stir up the discontented
elements in Italy against the Pope; English money
is largely spent in purchasing arms and ammunition
for SiciUan and Sardinian rebels; and Mazzini and
Garibaldi, who stand exactly in the same position
with regard to their government that I and my com-
rades occupy towards England, are the guests of
English ministers and the petted darlings of London
drawing-rooms. But where is the use of talking of
consistency, when dealing with politics, where there
is neither conscience nor morals, but brutal cynicism
on the one hand, and facile compromise on the other?
Therefore, I have no defence to make. I c^m face to
face with a power that is as irresistible as it is unfor-
giving. I could appeal to honour, to patriotism, to
virtue, as justifying causes for our rebellion against
a power we never acknowledged; but the walls of this
Court would echo back the words in vain. An Itahan
rebel might use them, and be applauded for them.
But an Irish rebel must not utter such things; and
therefore, he is left without defence in the hands of a
power that is arbitrary, and an Executive that is merci-
less. But the Sohcitor-General, in his zeal, made one
remark which touches my personal honour, and with
which I must be permitted to deal. In language
which seemed meant to flatter, but which in reaUty was

152 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

a deadly insult, he said that my dead comrade and I,
being men of better education than the rank and file
of the Fenian brotherhood, stood doubly guilty not
only in the eyes of the law, but before all honourable
men, in having inveigled poor, helpless, ignorant
mechanics and labourers into criminal courses which
we foreknew must mean absolute ruin to them. If it
were true, no language, I admit, could be too strong
to condemn such perfidy. But I fear the learned
gentleman is deceived by his own experience; and,
like so many more, he has judged the heart of the
nation by the feeble and languid pulse that beats
only for gold. He has felt the palms of men itch-
ing for the bribes that were to steal away their con-
sciences. He has never seen the fingers that closed
over the pike and the musket, even though the pike
and the musket meant death to themselves. And so
far from inveighng these brave men into dangerous
courses, and playing on their ignorance, I assure this
court, and through this court the country, that I and
my comrade pointed out, again and again, not only
the dangers, but even the hopelessness of our enter-
prise, only to be met by a shout of scorn, and the dark
suspicion that we ourselves were traitors and cowards.
No, my Lord, it was by no action of ours those thou-
sands of labourers and artisans went out on the hillside
that awful night last March, every man prepared to
face death on the field and the scaffold, not for gold
or silver, not for a shce of bogland or mountain, but
for that glorious dream that has haunted the imagina-
tion of our race, and which will continue to haunt it
so long as a fringe of foam circles her coasts, and the
winds sing up along her valleys — the honour and the
freedom of their country. And I tell you, that we

A STORY OF '67 153

might as well have hoped to stop a prairie fire, or hurl
back the surges of the Atlantic, as to induce these
poor fellows to lay down their rude arms, until at least
they were tested once in open field with the enemies and
despots of their country — "

"I have allowed you enormous latitude," said the
Judge, "because you say that you were only rebutting
a charge upon your personal honour made by the
SoUcitor-General; but you are seizing the opportunity
for making a pohtical and inflammatory address."

"I am but defending my own honour, my Lord,"
said Myles, "and, what is dearer to me, the honour of
the brave men who were associated with me."

There was a murmur of applause in Court, which
was suppressed; and the Judge made a sign to Myles
to proceed.

"I have little more to add," said the latter. "But
let me meet at once the objection, that even if our
attempted revolution could have been justified by moral
and political reasons, it stands condemned on my
own admission, by reason of the impossibility of its
success. But what is success? Did we — I mean,
my comrade, Halpin and I — dream of wresting Ire-
land from the grip of English domination, and making
her one of the great powers of the earth? No! Did
we hope to see her taking her place in the van of civili-
sation; and showing the unbeheving world what
tremendous resources lay hidden here, untried and
undeveloped? No. Did we dream of seeing one
day Irish men of war riding at anchor in her harbours;
and Irish horse and foot camped in the Curragh?
Certainly not! What then? What did we hope for?
What did we dream of? The Solicitor-General
knows."

154 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

That learned gentleman looked up in amazement;
and the eyes of the Court were directed towards him.

"The learned gentleman," Myles went on, "has
personal experience of how low a people, or rather a
section of a people, may fall, when the vital spark of
nationhood has been extinguished, and there remains
but the corrupting influence of self. When that takes
place, a nation sinks into a condition somewhat like
unto the decomposition of a body from which the spirit
has departed; and bribery, corruption, the selling of
votes and the selling of souls take the place of all those
stirring and vitalising influences that constitute the
life of a nation. Now, when that fatal moment arrives,
nothing can stop the dread process of national decom-
position except the shedding of blood. I shall not tres-
pass on the Sf .red precincts of religion to illustrate
my meaning. 1 shall only say that as the blood of
the martyrs w^as the seed of saints, so the blood of the
patriot is the sacred seed from which alone can spring
new forces, and fresh life into :i nation that is drifting
into the putrescence of decay. And if I needed proof
of this, I have it at hand in the example of the brave
man who died in my arms. A poor, half-bhnd, humble
schoolmaster, hardly known in the place where he
taught and laboured, gave his life for his country;
and behold! his remains have had royal obsequies;
and the very men, who had polluted their hands with
bribes and who had dragged the triumphal chariot
of the Solicitor-General through their town, raised
the coffin of the dead patriot on their shoulders and bore
him, amidst the sobs and weeping of thousands of men
and women, to his last honourable place in the very
town where his name was hardly known. And in years
to come, in centuries to come. Irishmen will travel

A STORY OF '67 155

across the seas to see the spot where he died, to pluck
a shamrock that may have sprung from his blood, to
cut a relic from the tree beneath which he fell. That
is his justification, if justification were needed — the
verdict of his race, which has transformed a humble
but noble soul into a hero; which has transformed
itself under the magic of such an example from a race
of time-serving, self-seeking sycophants into a nation
of unselfish and self-sacrificing patriots. And the
same justification I claim for myself. I have not had,
although I sought it, the privilege of dying by his
side, and saying with him: 'I am happier than Sars-
field, because this blood is shed for Ireland.' But no
true Irishman sees a distinction between the battle-
field and the scaflfold. Both are the fields of honour
for our race — "

There was a mighty shout of approbation from the
crowds that filled the Court, and it was not easily
suppressed.

Then Myles added:

"I have no more to say. My earthly fate is in
your Lordship's hands. My eternal Destiny lies
with God. I leave my name and memory with con-
fidence to my countrymen!"

There was another murmur of applause, which was
succeeded by dead silence as the Judge proceeded to
pronounce sentence.

" Myles Cogan, you have been convicted, on evidence
that was indisputable, of the gravest crime that can
be committed by a citizen against his country. All
human safety, and, therefore, all human progress,
depend on the stability of government. There can be
no security for Ufe or property where that stability
can be shaken. The specious arguments you have

156 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

adduced to justify your attempt to subvert the govern-
ment of this country fall dead before the main conten-
tion, that if such principles were once admitted, no
government, no matter how long estabhshed, could
be deemed secure; and the efforts of all honourable
citizens would be paralysed before the perpetual
spectre of anarchy. It would be idle for me to enter
into an argument as to the attitude of the British
Press towards questions of European politics. Nor
can I take notice, as a reasonable and justifying cause
of your rebeUion against the Sovereign of these realms,
of that visionary and foolish theory of shedding blood
for the purpose of purifying public hfe. Modern
civilisation refuses to accept such theories and prefers
to work along more sober and rational lines. I regret
deeply to see a young man of much abihty and edu-
cation, whose life might have been one of great honour
to himself and utihty to society, placed in the tragical
circumstances in which you now appear before your
country. I can make every allowance for the hot-
headedness of youth, and the tendency to rush after
phantoms of a disordered imagination; but, when
such folhes become a source of peril to the nation,
when they unloose the bonds of society, break down
that sense of security on which alone progress and
prosperity are based, and threaten to fling back a
peaceable country into the agonies of anarchy, then
the strong arm of the law must be invoked, and the
punishment meted out must be made not only com-
mensurate with the crime committed, but also of such
a nature that it shall act as a deterrent to others from
embarking on such evil courses. And therefore,"
said the Judge, assuming the black cap, "the sentence
of this Court is that you, Myles Cogan, be taken from

A STORY OF '67 157

this Court to the place wherein you have hitherto been
detained; and thence, on the 23rd day of September
to the place of execution; and there hanged by the
neck until you are dead — and — and — "

Here the Judge broke down, and tearing off the
black cap, he rushed hastily from the bench.

In an instant a crowd of young men dashed up the
stairs that led on to the witness-table, and from there
and from the body of the Court a hundred eager hands
were wildly stretched to grasp those of the young
patriot; but the warders closed around their prisoner,
and led him down the stairs to the cells. A wild shout
of "Farewell," "We'll never forget you," echoed
dimly through the doors and passages; and the outer
world closed its gates on the brave young Irishman.

XXIII

Yet the world went on as usual. The selfish wrapped
themselves up in their own warm and padded safety,
and when they could do so with impunity, they used
strong language towards rebels and revolutionaries.
People who have business in banks object to changes
of every kind, as change means always insecurity; and
to such, no punishment could be too great for wild,
young revolutionaries, who in the heat and irresponsi-
bihty of immature years, want to stake everything
on a single chance. But, deep down in the hearts of
the poor, and the toiler and the worker; in the souls
of young maidens, who love the chivalrous and the
ideal, and mothers, who feel for all that suffers and is
lost; and in the hot breasts of the young, who adore
bravery, and worship in the track of the patriot, there
was many a heart-throb of sympathy for the brave
young soldier, who had thrown up all the happiness
and success of life, and staked all, even hfe, for his
country.

The good priest during these days had much to do.
Crowds of young fellows were in gaol awaiting trial;
and no one knew whether they would be tried on the
capital charge of treason-felony, or on some minor
charge, which might mean but a few months' imprison-
ment. But they had to be defended, and a defence
meant money; and funds had to be raised to pay
clever advocates, and bring up witnesses and save

A STORY OF '67 159

them, if possible. And Father James was head and
front of everything. He visited the poor fellows in
prison, cheered them up, and found them, to his
surprise, more eager to suffer than to be released.

"As we couldn't do anything for Ireland on the
field," they said, "at least we can suffer for her."

He explained the sufferings.

"No matter! If we are left free now, with Halpin
dead, and Myles Cogan on the scaffold, we would be
eternally disgraced."

He had to leave them alone, merely securing the
best legal succour in his power.

More difficult was his task in reconciling the poor
bereaved sister, Agnes Cogan, to her brother's fate.
Woman sees only the beloved one. When he is in
danger, the transcendental and sublime cannot console
her. It is doubtful whether that saying of the Spartan
mother: "Come back with your shield, or upon
it," is not legendary; and so, all the praises that were
showered on the young patriots, all the prayers that
were offered on their behalf, could not reconcile the
poor girl to the idea of her beloved brother suffering
a violent and premature death. She was too weak
after weeks of long prostration to make any decided
effort in his behalf; but she wrote a letter that would
have touched the heart of Herod, to the SoUcitor-
General; he replied officially and cautiously, but,
without giving a gleam of hope. And the dread morn-
ing of the execution was approaching.

As a matter of fact, the Government had no idea
of proceeding to extremities. They might have had no
scruples in hanging a half-dozen young rebels; but
there is a saying that has sunk deep into the minds
of English statesmen:

160 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"// you want to keep nationality alive in Ireland, you
must hang five or six rebels every ten or fifteen years."

The mighty magic of the scaffold lasts just so long;
and then dies away into the prose and commonplace
of the eating, drinking, marrying, workaday world, until
the folly of making martyrs seizes on our rulers again.

During those eventful days, the condition of Mary
Carleton's health became a matter of serious concern
to her parents. She appeared to droop away from
the robust energies of a young and healthy girl into
a condition that pointed to early decline and death.
From the day in which Myles Cogan was sentenced, she
seemed to sink more and more, until at last it was
determined that to save her life she should go abroad.
This was all the more embarrassing because Kendall
was now pressing his suit with greater ardour than
ever; and it was warmly seconded by the girl's parents.
But she held back, refusing to give a final answer from
day to day, pleading health and other causes, which
were only too palpable.

On the day when the reprieve arrived from Dublin,
commuting Myles Cogan's sentence to penal servitude
for life, Kendall called as usual. He was annoyed
and wrathful, because the young fierce rebel was
spared; and he expressed his annoyance without con-
cealment.

"This Government of ours is altogether too lenient,"
he said, after a few preliminaries. "They are too
squeamish. I don't know what influences have been
at work; but they have done a most foolish thing in
reprieving Cogan — "

"Myles Cogan reprieved?" said Mary Carleton,
and then fell into a dead faint.

A STORY OF '67 161

"I don't know what has come over that girl," said
her mother, returning to the drawing-room; "of course
'tis her concern for the poor sister, who naturally is
heartbroken. But that won't account for her constant
ill-health. She must go away ! "

"They asked my opinion, of course," said Rendall,
as if not heeding, "and I gave it to them candidly. I
told them that the insurrection was killed; but it
might revive again. And nothing could revive it but
the inflammatory speeches of such harebrained fools
as Cogan."

Mr. Carleton came in.

"Young Cogan is reprieved," said his wife. "Mr.
Rendall has just called to tell us. Mary was so
upset about that poor girl that she had a slight
faint."

"Cogan reprieved!" said Edward Carleton. "What
do you think of it, Rendall?"

"Badly!" said Rendall. "It means a few years in
gaol; then a big row about amnesty; then a weak
government giving in; and those fire-brands are flung
back amongst us again,"

"But, after all, he is young!" said Edward Carleton,
"and his father was a decent sort of fellow. A little
vulgar; but he paid his way."

"Oh, I have no prejudice against the young fool,"
said Rendall. "In fact, I think I hardly ever saw
him. But, where the public safety is concerned, no
precautions can be too great. Think of all we've gone
through these last few months; and imagine it all over
again!"

"But, after all, hanging is a serious matter — "

"Very — for the Culprit!" said Rendall, who was
in an unamiable mood.

162 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"I know — I know!" said Carleton. "But, if a
fellow is locked up for life, he cannot do harm!"

"No! If he is locked up for life!" said Kendall.
"But I have seen things; and I know that in five
years Cogan will be out again; and hard at work as ever
at mischief-making!"

"I'll just run to see how's Mary!" said her father.
And Rendall took the opportunity of saying:

"If we could only get Miss Carleton to say. Yes!
I would get six weeks' leave of absence; and I could
take her abroad to the Riviera."

"Ah, yes!" sighed the mother. "If we could only
bring her to reason."

"Allow me to ask you one question," said Rendall,
now very serious, and almost combative, "do you think,
Mrs. Carleton, that Mary, Miss Carleton, had any
secret liking for this young fellow Cogan?"

"Impossible!" said Mrs. Carleton, almost angrily.
"Quite impossible! Mary would not demean herself
by thinking of the son of a mere shopkeeper and miller.
How could you have thought it?"

"Well, indeed, I am ashamed of having harboured the
thought. In fact, I thought it was the other way. Do
you know — did I ever tell you, that it was on Miss
Carleton's suggestion I arrested Cogan last winter?"

"On Mary's suggestion?" said her mother.

"Yes! She asked me as a favour to have Cogan
arrested, and put away!"

"Wonders will never cease!" said Mrs. Carleton.
"And she so intimate with his sister! Are you quite
sure, Mr. Rendall?"

"Quite. She saw me to the door one evening, and
asked me to do her a favour. I said, of course! The
favour was to have Cogan promptly arrested."

A STORY OF '67 163

"That accounts for her emotion now!" said Mrs.
Carleton after a pause. "She must have conceived
some violent dislike for the fellow; probably, he
might have presumed to approach her with an offer
of marriage! That's just it! And now, she fears
that the same thing will recur, but — well, Edward,
how is she?"

"Better, I think! But we must get her away at
once. The Doctor says that those dark circles under
the eyes and those blue lips foretell heart affections."

"I had been saying to Mrs. Carleton," said Kendall,
"before you came in, that if Mary would only grant
me my wish, and your wishes, I could get six weeks'
leave, and would carry her off to the Riviera. A few
weeks at Cannes or Cap St. Martin, away from all this
excitement, would re-establish her health, and make
me," the officer almost sobbed, "a happy man!"

"Well, look here, Kendall," said the man of law,
"you know we cannot force Mary's consent. Young
ladies nowadays have their own opinions, and are
determined to act upon them — "

"I would not accept Miss Carleton's hand, unless
it was freely given," said Kendall.

"Quite right! There's no use in laying up a life-
time of disappointment. Well, it all comes to this.
Tomorrow morning, — Mary will be herself then —
I shall broach the matter to her, leaving her absolutely
free. Perhaps you would call in the afternoon; and
I shall let you know her decision."

"Thanks ever so much!" said Kendall. "You can-
not do any more. I await my fate with anxiety and
hope!"

In the morning, Mary Carleton was much better.
Was it that night's rest, which had smoothed out

164 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

those lines that were gathering around her mouth;
and brought a little colour to her lips and cheeks, and
put a certain lustre in her eyes? And tell it not in
Ascalon, Mary Carleton did eat a fairly good break-
fast, and seemed eager to see the papers, and read all
about that reprieve of the young rebel. And, when
her good father, approaching the subject in much fear
and trembling that afternoon, and after many a round-
about sentence, did lay Kendall's proposal as an
ultimatum and final appeal before her, he was thunder-
struck to hear, after the long silence in which she bore
his eloquence, a modest and almost whispered, Yes!

Mark how swiftly our little preliminary Acts of the
Drama are progressing. Halpin dead; Agnes Cogan,
a derelict, weak and helpless; Mary Carleton, the
afiianced of the thrice fortunate Rendall, with a long
vista of Rivieras and happy marriage years before
her. And Myles Cogan, —

Yes! Just at seven o'clock, at the very moment
that Rendall was first to hear of his happiness from
his future father-in-law, and then from the lips of his
affianced bride, Myles Cogan, in his convict-garb,
grey frieze, marked all over with red arrows, and hand-
cuffed to another convict, was standing on the North
Mall Quay in Dublin, awaiting the orders to step on
board a steamer, that had now been converted into a
floating prison. There were ten or eleven other prison-
ers with him; a posse of police, fully armed, stood to
attention near the wall; officers, with their hands on
revolvers, walked up and down, looking anxiously
around; outside the station, fifty dragoons with drawn
sabres rattled their horses' bridles, and a company of
infantry leaned on their rifles. Then the last whistle

A STORY OF '67 165

was sounded. The convicts were marched on board.
A strong guard followed. Down the steep steps of
the steamer the convicts were driven unceremoniously;
deeper down they trod in darkness the iron steps,
until at last they reached the hold of the vessel. Here
they were invited to sleep, if they pleased, on rude
bunks, lined with straw. There was not a ray of
light; only the throb of the engines, and the vibration
of the steamer, told them that they were leaving their
native land. Some, alas! for ever.

XXIV

On a summer evening some years later, a gang of
convicts were out on the moor, that stretched like a
dreary and desolate sea around the village of Prince-
town. They had been dispersed at work for a few
hours, when one of those sudden wet fogs that are so
common, even in the hottest weather, in Dartmoor,
gloomed down, and the sharp, stern order came from
the warders to close in. As they did, one seemed to
straggle a little behind; and, taking advantage of his
momentary isolation, the warder said:

"Don't turn round, Cogan, nor speak."

The convict stood still for a moment, and then
stooped down as if to tie his shoes.

"Why the devil do you notice that fellow?" said the
warder. "He'll drive you mad!"

"I hope so," said the convict, "and then I can send
him to hell."

"Close up. March forward!" said the warder.
And Myles Cogan joined the rear line of the gang, and
strode forward like the rest.

Yes, it was our friend, Myles, and the language
shows the awful state of desperation to which he had
been driven.

The discipline at Dartmoor, very stern and unbend-
ing, is not ruthless. The work was severe and such
as is usually performed by beasts of burden; but the
health of the prisoners was well cared for; and there
was a good deal of consideration shown the men,

A STORY OF '67 167

except in cases of insubordination. There was no
mercy there. The convict who embarked on a course
of contumacy, created for himself a hell. Hence,
clever and experienced convicts who knew how to
ingratiate themselves with the officers had pleasant
times. The hot-blooded, proud, and perhaps honour-
able men had a bad time. They could not brook
insults; and it was part of the programme that insults
should come. But if on the whole the discipline was
merciful enough, it was not so with the many Fenian
prisoners who thronged the gaols of England at this
time. In some way, caused, of course, by the panic of
great fear, accentuated by the flaming articles of news-
papers, these poor Fenians, mostly hard-working, honest
artisans and labourers, were reputed to be as sangui-
nary and lawless as Russian Nihilists, or the com-
munists of 1870. And their lot was a hard one,
therefore. The iron grip of the law closed mercilessly
around them; and the ofiicials, regarding them as
desperadoes, and full of fear of some nameless and
imaginary outrages, used all the stern machinery of
prison discipline to crush and subdue them.

Myles Cogan, who entered Dartmoor prison under
the character of a fierce and lawless criminal, began
very soon to experience this. At first, he was set to
perform the most menial offices for the other convicts;
and although his sense of decency and innate refine-
ment revolted at the horrid tasks set him, he obeyed
without a murmur. Then he was set to heavier, but
less repulsive, work, such as being harnessed with
fifteen or twenty prisoners to a cart, which was laden
with several tons of granite, and which had to be
dragged up the steep gradient from the quarry, and
thence to where new buildings were in progress. It

168 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

was killing work; but his strength as yet was not
undermined, and there was a certain decency about
this class of labour compared with the internal work of
the prison. The warders, too, were not considerate,
watching him carefully as a desperate character, who
might at any time blow the colossal prison to fragments
with dynamite. Hence he was subjected to the gross
humiliation of frequent searchings, carried out without
the slightest regard to decency or reverence of his
person. From these ordeals, he came back to his cell
with flaming eyes and dilated nostrils. But perhaps
the worst thing he had to bear during some months of
his prison life was the dread association on Sunday
mornings with the lowest criminals in the recreation
grounds after Mass. To step out from the holy place,
where he had witnessed, with profound love and rever-
ence, the awful mysteries of his faith; to feel that
glow of the heart which sweet solemn music and the
explanation of Christian doctrine as enunciated from
the pulpit creates; and then, in a moment to feel an
arm passed through his, and to look into the face of a
reprieved murderer or burglar; to have to listen, as
they moved around, arm in arm, to a Cockney voice
narrating, with gusto, the story of some abominable
crime, or to have to hear ribald talk, and sometimes
blasphemous comments on the sacred mysteries of the
faith that was so dear to him, — this was the cruellest
punishment of all this brave young fellow had to bear.
Then his aloofness, his refinement, his badly-concealed
disgust of his fellow-prisoners became known; and
in the thousand and one ways whereby lower natures
can torment their fellows, Myles was made to feel that
there was a coalition of convicts and officers against
him, which boded ill for his welfare in this prison.

A STORY OF '67 169

Slowly, slowly, the dread miasma of the gaol, unre-
lieved by a particle of human sympathy, crept down
into his soul, and after eight or nine months, his
spirits sank, and he became a gloomy and morose,
and therefore, in the eyes of the officials, a doubly
dangerous prisoner. The very aspect of the place,
too, weighed on his spirits. In Portland, there was at
least a variety of scene, — the sea with its eternal and
ever-changing beauty neutralising the horrid monotony
of the chalk cliffs and limestone quarries. Then the
fleet sometimes anchored off the Bill of Portland; and
flags waved, and guns sounded a salute; and some-
times the sweet, far-off sounds of a band playing at
the officers' mess, came as tokens of civilisation to
men surrounded with every aspect of barbarism. But
in Dartmoor none of those human and consolatory
incidents took place. Nature showed herself in her
worst and most barbaric aspect, — grey moorland,
on which the sun never seemed to rest, but to be wafted
away across bog and tor by the fierce winds that swept
down from the Bristol Channel, or up from the Atlantic
across the wastes of Cornwall; grey skies, always
swooping down on the low uplands and wrapping
them in their own melancholy colours; and there in
the midst of that most sombre and depressing land-
scape was England's fortress-prison, its grey granite
walls, pierced by windows that perhaps gave a little
light to its interior, but never allowed a human eye
to penetrate beyond the massive ugliness of the exterior-
Mother Nature, sour and repellent; human nature,
sordid and degraded, — such were the sad environments
of our lonely prisoner.

Yet it was not altogether intolerable, until he was
brought into contact with one of those base creatures

170 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA ,

who, possessed of momentary power, seem delighted to
use it for malevolent purposes.

The old prison doctor had retired on pension a few
weeks before; and his place was taken by a North of
Ireland man, a bigot of an advanced type. Religious
and political prejudices envenomed him from the very
beginning against the Fenian prisoners; and especially
against Myles Cogan, on account of his prominence in
the Fenian movement. He took every opportunity
of withering and galling this sensitive soul by every
kind of carping and allusion. But when he subjected
this proud young fellow to personal humiliation in the
numberless searchings which the warders carried out
under pretext of discovering secret correspondence or
worse, it needed all the caution and self-control of
the young convict to keep from violence.

One morning, Myles with a large batch of convicts
was harnessed to an immense float on which was placed
an enormous block of granite. They were dragging it
up from the quarry just near the prison, the warders
looking on. The prisoner in front of Myles was tak-
ing the work easily, as could be seen by the slackness
of the rope, and thus additional strain was flung on
his fellows. The warder, purposely misunderstanding
this, called out:

"Number 86, pull on there, will you."

Myles, thus addressed, strained to the utmost, and
then, as a sharp pain smote him, he fell in the tracks.

They unloosed him, and bade him rise. He couldn't.
The warders disbelieved him, and again ordered him
to rise.

"My back is broken," he said. "I cannot stand."

They raised him rudely; and a couple of convicts
were summoned to get a wheelbarrow, and take him

A STORY OF '67 171

back to his cell. It was no easy task, and Myles
suffered excruciating tortures. In his cell, he was
stripped and examined, the doctor pressing his hand
down the spine. When he touched where the muscles
were torn and lacerated, Myles winched.

"Malingering!" said the doctor.

" You're a liar, you scoundrel ! " said Myles. " I'm not
malingering. I demand the services of another doctor."

The doctor laughed. The matter was reported to
the Governor, who instantly ordered Myles the dark
cells, solitary confinement, and bread and water for
a week. There in the deep darkness, unbroken by a
ray of light, except when the warder once a day brought
him the loaf of bread and the can of water, Myles
passed the lonely hours in excruciating pain, unrelieved
by a moment's sleep, except when Nature now and
again conquered, only to be driven back to spasms that
seemed to tear open all the muscles of his body. He
tried to support his courage by thinking of all he had
gone through, — the excitement, the enthusiasm, the
clasping of hands, the voices of the people dying away
in murmurous cadences as he descended from the dock.

"How little they know," he thought, "what the
horrors of penal servitude mean. And is the game
worth the candle? Perhaps even now Halpin and I
are forgotten."

Towards the end of the week, he became delirious,
spouted snatches of national poetry, addressed Agnes
and his father and Halpin; gave the word of command
to troops. It was lucky. He had ceased to feel pain
in the delirium. When he awoke to consciousness, he
was in the prison hospital. There he lay for weeks, a
prey to such physical and mental anguish as, thank
God, does not fall to the lot of many.

XXV

Yet from that dreary Golgotha, he could pen such
lines as these to his sister:

"Dartmoor Prison,

"Princetown, Devon,
"March 16, 187....

"Dearest Agnes:

" Again I write to assure you I am well. The winter
has been very severe, as I suppose it has been in Ire-
land; but we are well protected from cold. The house
is heated; and the chapel is almost luxurious. Sunday
morning is verily a Sabbath to me. The Mass with
all its tender associations, the sermon, generally good;
but above all the music, send me on the wings of imagi-
nation half-ways towards heaven. The gallery is
occupied by the officers and their families, many of
whom have lovely voices. The harmonium is played
by the daughter of the protestant Rector of the parish;
but there is one voice, that of one of my comrades, a
prisoner like myself, and it seems to come down from
heaven. Yet it is not so touching as when at Bene-
diction all the prisoners, myself amongst the number,
join in singing the 0 Salutaris and the Litany. There
I invariably break down. To hear three hundred of
us, poor devils, appealing to the 'Morning Star,' the
'Health of the Weak,' 'the Refuge of Sinners,' is
heart-breaking. And it is nearly always the old
Litany we used sing at home, when during the May

A STORY OF '67 173

evenings the candles were lighted before our Lady's
statue, — and the lovely spring flowers cast a per-
fume around the chapel. There are no flowers here;
only a desolate waste; but memory supplies all that
and much more. I have applied to be allowed serve
Mass, as I did of old at home; but as yet I have not
had my request. Did I say memory supplies all?
Yes, and it also tells me that your love for me is undy-
ing, whoever else may forget me; and that Father James
is the same kind, dear old friend as ever. Give him
my love; and remember in all things to be guided by him.
" Your affectionate brother,

"Myles Cogan (No. 86)."

The Governor of the Prison showed that letter to his
wife, before he posted it. With a woman's swift
intuition she said:

"The man that wrote that letter is not a bad man."

The Governor murmured something about the
deceitfulness and hypocrisy of prisoners.

"He has been punished severely as a refractory and
incorrigible prisoner," he said. "I do not know what
to think."

"It might be worth while to make independent
inquiries," said his wife.

"That's a grand letter," said Father James, when
Agnes read it for him, seated at the hot fire in her
snug little parlour. The snow was without, just as
it was on that March night some years ago. "Really,
those English are merciful. I have read accounts of
the hardships of poor prisoners on the continent,
especially in Italy, not to speak of the horrors of the
salt mines of Siberia; but there is a good deal of hu-
manity in these English prisons, compared with
those."

174 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Yes!" said Agnes, sadly, "but for life, for life! I
shall never see him again."

"Now, now," said the good priest, "you mustn't
give way to that nonsense. How often have I told
you that Mjdes will be home in another year or two.
You see the country is up on the matter. I never
thought I'd see the people so much in earnest."

"But the Home Secretary has refused to open the
question," she said. "And they say now that these
fresh attacks of the Fenians in England have closed
the doors on the prisoners for ever."

"Well, well," said the priest, "we won't argue the
question. But longer heads than yours or mine have
settled that an amnesty Avill be proclaimed before long.
The English are waking up to the fact, that, after all,
Ireland has grievances when so many fine young fellows
are prepared to go to death or dungeons for them."

"God grant it!" she said meekly, her hands clasped
on her knees.

"By the way, have these fellows come to terms with
you as yet? " he asked, after a pause.

"Some of them, and I fear only under compulsion.
Myles' boys threatened them; and they yielded. They
are working now for twenty-six shillings a week."

"And how much did Simpson offer them?"

"Thirty!" she said. "And shorter hours!"

"The black-hearted scoundrel!" said the priest in a
sudden fury. "To think of that fellow, a perfect
stranger, coming down here a tatterdemalion from
Sligo; and taking advantage of a defenceless girl.
I'll hunt that fellow from post to pillar, until I get
him out of the town."

"But it is the people themselves who are encouraging
him," she said. "I wouldn't mind the gentry all around,

A STORY OF '67 175

although they always dealt with us, until — until
father's death; but they have now gone over from us
almost in a body. Perhaps they are not to blame."

"If they were gentlemen, they wouldn't do it,"
said the priest. "Of course, they're furious against
the Fenians; but what have you to do with all that?
I'll engage Colonel Hutchinson has not withdrawn
his custom?"

"No, nor old Miss Annesley. I believe some pres-
sure was brought to bear on them; but they refused to
leave me!"

"Then, 'tis our own people who have gone over to a
perfect stranger?"

"Yes! And you know he has no difficulty in getting
workmen to put up his new mill. They don't expect
to see Myles again!"

"Slaves, always slaves!" muttered the priest. "Not
a particle of manliness or decency! Who's the highest
bidder? That's all!"

"Do you still think I should continue the business?"
she asked. Evidently, she had broached the subject
before.

"I do. Most positively. You can easily wait for
a year or two before you enter a convent; but I wont
have poor Myles homeless and houseless when he
comes back!"

"But if everj'thing goes to rack and ruin," she
pleaded. "Would it not be better to save something
now?"

"Money is not the question," he replied. "I want
to see Myles at Millbank; and, my God, what a
reception we'll give him!"

It seemed to calm her fears. The priest turned the
conversation.

176 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"By the way, when did you hear from Mary Carle-
ton, — Mrs. Kendall, I mean?"

"Oh! Not since she returned from the Continent.
She has had a little daughter, and Hugh, she says, is
growing a fine fellow. He is here now with his grand-
mother."

"Oh, I must go to see the prodigy. I wonder did
she ever care for Myles?"

"She did, I think; but girls cannot choose and pick
their husbands in our days. I think she was right in
marrying Mr. Kendall."

"Well, according to the world, I suppose. He is
now County Inspector, I believe?"

"Yes! But 'tis an awful place where they're living.
Imagine twenty miles from a railway station; and a
post once a week!"

"No great attraction for correspondents!" he said,
as he rose to go. "By Jove, what a blizzard that was
last night, just the same as in '67, when these poor
fools met their fate. No matter. In one way, they
were right. There never was such a fierce national
spirit in the country, as at this moment. Poor Halpin
was a prophet. A little blood-letting works miracles.
We'll have a good demonstration at his grave on
Wednesday; and Myles won't be forgotten."

All of which, could it be communicated to that sick
and lonely prisoner in Dartmoor, as he lay awake at
night in fierce pain, and listened alternately to the
howling of the snow-storm and the clanking of their
manacles beneath the prisoners' bedclothes; and the
slow tread of the armed warder up and down the aisle
between the beds, might have brought a little comfort
to a broken and wounded spirit. But alas! there was
no communication possible there; and he was left to

A STORY OF '67 177

his sombre thoughts, as he watched the snow-flakes
gather and fall on the dark windows, or the bleared
and smoky lamp that swung from the ceiling; and
thought, I have chosen Hell for my inheritance and
portion, and it shall be mine till merciful Death release
me.

XXVI

Above the sunny slopes, that, dotted here and there
with handsome villas, bend down towards the blue
waters of the Mediterranean, is a certain hotel, much
in favour with English visitors; and somewhere about
the time that Myles Cogan met this serious accident
in the Dartmoor quarries, and close on the opening of
Parliament, a great ball was given by some distinguished
visitors at the Hotel, and the residents in the crowded
and neighbouring villas were invited. Amongst them
were Kendall and his wife. It was their third season
at this delightful place; and Mrs. Kendall was so
delighted with the beauty of the locality, and the charm-
ing society she met there, that she quite determined
to spend the dreary months of the early springtime
in that charming place in future. It was something
of an agony to part with little Hugh, but her mother
was importunate in her demands to see the boy; and
this left his mother free.

She was happy, as young wives and mothers are,
who are surrounded by affection and care and those
more material things that make the comfort of life.
The loneliness of her Donegal home and the absence
of society were forgotten in her maternal cares. Only
that now and then, that longing for the sunny skies
and the charming people that haunt the shores of the
Mediterranean just when London fogs and influenza
are prevalent, would come back; and then Kendall
could refuse her nothing.

A STORY OF '67 179

She was at this farewell ball; and was conspicuous
there. Her bright Irish type of beauty was enhanced
by her tasteful dress, and some rare old family jewels,
which were given to her by her mother. She was sit-
ting out on the closed verandah in the early hours of
the morning with her partner, a man of middle age,
but his dark hair was mottled with white patches, as
if it were not the handiwork of time, but the rude chem-
istry of trouble. They had been talking in the usual
vapid way about the ball, and the dancing, and the
little scandals that hover around such places, when
suddenly he threw his arms high over his head, yawned
and sighed and said:

"Imagine! In a few days, instead of sitting out
here at two in the morning with a charming com-
panion, I shall be on the green benches of that detes-
table House of Commons, badgered to death and
worried by those Irish wolf-dogs."

"And are the Irish so very terrible?" she said.

"Unspeakable!" he replied.

"I thought that epithet was reserved by your leader
for the Turks?" she said.

"I'd rather meet a whole battalion of the Moslems
than half a dozen of your countrymen," he replied.

"And my countrywomen?" she queried.

"One is equal to an army there," he said. "Your
fellowcountrymen can worry; but your fellow-
countrywomen conquer!"

"Indeed? I thought it was the proud boast of
Britons that they were unsubduable. They never
know they are beaten!"

"True!" he said, with a flush of pride and an instinct
of coquetry. "On the field, in the senate, on the seas,
we are invincible by reason of our very stupidity. In

180 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

the drawing-room, in the ball-room, in the boudoir,
we are beaten by reason of our inferiority."

"In what?"

"In everything — grace, beauty, dignity — "

She cut him short.

"I have read somewhere that England's power
consists in her genius for assimilation. It is the cause
of all her colonial successes."

"Quite so. We beat the subject races flat to the
earth; then lift them up and make Englishmen of them.
Look at India! We conquered Sikhs, Ghourkas,
Mahrattas, Nepalese, and then incorporated them in
our Indian armies, and made them our bravest and
most determined allies."

"It is an abrupt form of civilisation," said Mary
Rendall, "but it is certainly successful. And you
treat these Hindoo tribes well?"

"Certainly. The moment we make them feel our
power, we make them also experience our clemency."

"Then you don't shoot down those rebels, who are
striving just to keep their own; nor put them in prison,
nor manacle, nor fetter them?"

"Never. Such a thing is unheard of. We had to
exercise a little severity in the mutiny; but not other-
wise. The tribes of India now understand what it is
to be under British protection. A revolution is now
impossible!"

"Alas! for my poor countrymen," said Mary Rendall,
as her thoughts went back to Kilmorna and the rising,
"they are the only race that never has known British
clemency."

"They are too dangerous!" said the minister. "And
treacherous. They must be kept down with a strong
hand, when they rebel!"

A STORY OF '67 181

"About as dangerous as rabbits!" said his com-
panion, "when the sportsmen come in to the field
with their breechloaders."

"I regret to say that is notour experience," he said.
"And I feel I am more flattering to the fighting race,
as they love to call themselves, than their fair country-
woman!"

"I saw the rising," she replied. "I knew many of
the Fenians — "

"Mrs. Kendall! Impossible!" said the minister.

"Quite true!" she said composedly. "They were
labourers, artisans, tradesmen, unskilled in arms, and
unarmed. They went out with their pikes and shovels
and old muskets to fight England, with her cannon and
breechloaders; and, because they went down in the
unequal fight, you think they are outside the pale of
clemency."

"But our reports, my dear Mrs. Rendall, our reports
come to this, that they are most sanguinary ruffians,
even in prison. The authorities have to use the most
severe methods to keep them in order and under
discipline."

"They provoke the lions, and then brand them with
hot irons," she said.

"But you said just now they were but rabbits."

"The rank and file? Yes! But there were men
amongst them that might challenge comparison with
the bravest and most honourable in the land. And
it is just these, that are first driven mad by ill-treat-
ment, and then punished as malefactors."

"I can forgive your generosity towards your mis-
guided countrymen," he replied, "but we have grave
duties towards our own country and society — "

"Undoubtedly," she interrupted. "But one of the

182 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

gravest should be that you should see for yourselves,
and not depend too much on officials and subordinates."

"You are interested?" he queried.

"Yes! In all. In one in particular; but there is
no room for mercy there, because he was an officer and
leader in the Fenian forces."

"May I be permitted to ask why you are so
interested?"

"Yes. His sister and I were schoolmates. I never
met him. But I gathered from all I heard that he
was a gentleman in every way — the very soul of
honour."

"So much the more dangerous to us," murmured the
official. "Yet, for your sake, I shall make enquiries.
Where is he imprisoned?"

"I have no idea. I have lost all communication
with the people I knew. He is in some English prison."

Her voice broke, and, looking at her there under the
verandah lights, her companion saw that there were
tears in her eyes.

"You at least remember his name?" he said, taking
out a notebook.

"Yes! Cogan — MylesCogan!"

He wrote the name rapidly.

"For Agnes — his sister's sake," she asked, "please
do something; and — and — "

She stopped.

"Please do not mention to Mr. Kendall that I spoke
of such things. He is an official, you know, and
prejudiced!"

"I understand!" he said.

The result of this little conference was as follows:

A few weeks later, the minister was in his place in
the House; and in a leisured moment he requested his

A STORY OF '67 183

friend, the Home Secretary, to make enquiries about
the conduct and condition of a certain leading Fenian
convict, named Myles Cogan. A few nights after,
he had to undergo a terrific cross-heckling from the
Opposition, above and below the gangway. Furious,
yet keeping, like a good Englishman, a calm exterior,
he sat down; and just then, the Home Secretary, who
sat in front of him, handed him a letter over his
shoulder. It ran thus:

"Daetmook Prison,

"March 21st, 18....

"Major has the honour to inform the Home

Secretary, in reply to his letter of enquiry dated the
16th instant, that the Fenian prisoner, Myles Cogan,
undergoing a life-sentence in this prison, has been
reported as refractory and insubordinate. He has
been under punishment nearly the whole time of his im-
prisonment; and has developed homicidal tendencies."

"H'm," said the minister, handing back the docu-
ment to the Home Secretary, "a bad case! But I
wonder did the punishment precede the homicidal ten-
dencies, or was it their sequel. I feel that I have
homicidal tendencies to-night. I could wish to hang
three or four of those fellows opposite."

Yet the special enquiry from the Home OflSce dis-
quieted Major not a little. It showed a special

interest somewhere. But he put the harassing thought
aside. There were the incontrovertible reports of the
chief warder and the house-surgeon. Clearly he could
not interfere. These things must be.

XXVII

Hence, the same course of studied insult was pur-
sued; and hence Myles found himself sinking deeper
and deeper in seas of desperation. Gradually, but
quite consciously, his character began to undergo a
process of deterioration, which alarmed him at first,
and then came to be regarded by his stifled conscience
as the inevitable result of his condition. And alas!
he felt, and oh! how keenly, that the resources of re-
ligion, which would have upheld and sustained him,
were cut away from him. Once he had asked for con-
fession from the prison chaplain. He admitted he
had belonged to the Fenian organisation, and there-
fore could not receive sacraments; but he added with
a bitter smile:

"I no longer am a member. I am a convict."

"Then you regret very much your past history with
all its follies and crimes?"

"Crimes? I never committed a crime in my life."

"It was a crime to enter an illegal society, having
for its object to dethrone our Queen, and subvert her
authority."

"To dethrone the Queen? Never! That never
entered our minds. To subvert English Government
in Ireland — yes! We would have done it, if we
could!"

"But you have had leisure now to see the criminality
of such courses, and to regret them?"

A STORY OF '67 185

"I cannot say so," said Myles. "My experience
here has convinced me that the British Government is
the incarnation of all evil."

"Then I can do nothing for you," said the priest.

He tried to pray; and it was a consolation at first.
He fell back on the sweet, solemn meditations which
he had so often made with his mother on the Passion
and Death of the Divine Victim of human injustice;
but somehow, the despairing thought that he was cut
away from communion with the Church, and had no
right to her consolations, made these meditations as
bitter wormwood in his mouth. An outcast from
society; a branded criminal, and cast off from the
company of the faithful, what right had he to pray,
he asked himself. No! There was no help in Heaven
or on earth. He flung up his hands, like a swimmer
who has battled long against the waves, and finds the
terrific powers around him too much for him, and
sank down into the depths of despair.

The poor Fenians, who were imprisoned with him,
and who, by reason of their inferiority, were unmolested,
viewed the horrible tragedy with bleeding hearts.
Every chance that offered, they eagerly seized it to
say a word of warning and encouragement.

"Never mind those Saxon brutes. Master Myles!
They're moving in Ireland; and we'll be soon home
again!"

Or:

"Don't give that Orangeman, Master Myles, the

satisfaction of punishing you. Don't you see what
the ruffian is aiming at? And that your hand is in
the lion's mouth?"

"Yes! He saw it all; but he had long since con-
cluded that flesh and blood could not bear such indigni-

186 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

ties as were offered him; and he sank into a mood of
savage hatred, that accompanied him all day, woke him
up in the watches of the night, and, finally, made him
pray that he might go mad, and wreak on his persecu-
tor that deadly revenge which his conscience, whilst
he kept his faculties, would not allow.

In the summer of the following year, a young Irish
priest, lent to the diocese of Plymouth, and just then
officiating at Exeter, was ordered to proceed to Dart-
moor, and take up the Sunday duty in place of the
prison chaplain, who had left for the holidays. He
packed his valise, took the train to Tavistock, met the
governor's groom, with his pony and trap in waiting,
and was driven along the broad, sheltered roads that
are such a feature in Devonshire. Then, they sud-
denly turned to the left and commenced the ascent of
a high road, bordered with oaks and elms which gradu-
ally gave place to pine and fir, until all traces of vegeta-
tion seemed to cease; and the broad spaces of the
moor, broken and undulating like a stormy sea, lay
bare before their eyes.

It was a melancholy spectacle even in the summer
time. The sun, that beat down hotly on the lower
levels, seemed veiled and pallid here; and, instead of
broad spaces, glowing in his light, a kind of grey and
muffled halo spread on every side, giving an additional
aspect of melancholy to the scene. The driver chatted
away unceremoniously with the young priest; and just
as they reached the slight elevation beneath which the
village of Princetown, with its monster gaol lay hidden,
he pointed to a grey patch, that showed clearly
against the duns and browns of the moorland, and
said:

A STORY OF '67 187

"You see that grey patch, or square, Sir, right over
there?"

"Yes! just there to the north!"

"That's a batch of convicts, Sir. They have been
working on the farm all day; and just now are called
in for the march home."

The young priest continued for a long time staring
at that grey square across the horizon. The word
"convict" fascinated him. He had never seen one.
He was about to be brought in touch with a strange
and mysterious life.

The pony cantered gaily up the long, broad street
of the village, the priest alighted at the chaplain's
door, took one hasty and alarmed look at the massive
granite walls that towered up before him with their
tiny windows, suggesting a huge bastion or fortifica-
tion loopholed for musketry; and had a calm, cold
greeting from the Englishwoman, who acted as house-
keeper to the chaplain.

When he had seen his room, and made his ablutions,
he came down to tea, and was surprised to find that
his attendant now was one of the prisoners. He was
a fine, handsome, athletic fellow, with smiles dancing
all over his face; and would have been quite a pleas-
ing picture but for the garb of navy blue, decorated
with broad red arrows, and the rude muffler around
the neck and the list shoes that seemed to speak of
the silence and solitude of the prison.

"I'm Father G 's servant, Sir," he said. "Any-
thing I can do for you, command me."

"But," said the young priest, scanning the prison
garments, "you're not exactly in the costume of an
ordinary footman?"

"No!" said the convict, smiling, " I am a prisoner, Sir,

188 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

doing my last term. This is the prison dress for those
who are doing their last six months."

"And they're not afraid you'd take French leave,
and skedaddle?"

"Oh, no, Sir! Why should I? I'd be shot, or
captured in twenty-four hours; and should do all my
term over again."

"Ha, I see!" said the priest. "Of course, you're a
Catholic?"

"Yes, sir!"

Then you just tell me what I've got to do tomorrow?
At what hour does Mass begin?"

"Ten o'clock. Sir! You just go up to the Lodge,
and the warder will give you the keys and all direc-
tions. Benediction at 3. Ha! There goes the last
bell. Good-night, sir!"

"Good-night!" said the priest, as he was left to his
own meditations.

He speedily recovered himself, asked for pen and
paper, and wrote out the headings of the morning's
discourse.

A few minutes before ten o'clock next morning he
was at the Lodge, got a heavy bunch of keys from the
porter, with strict injunctions that on no account was
he to part with them even for a moment, shown how
to lock and unlock the heavj^ iron gates by shooting
the bolt twice each way, and again warned that the
keys were not for a moment to leave his possession.

The chapel bell was pealing out its dismal notes,
as he crossed two large yards and entered the prison
precincts. Two convicts were just entering the chapel.
They were his acolytes. One had red, tender eyes;
the other was small of stature, and spoke with diffi-
culty. He had a diseased palate. The prisoners filed

A STORY OF '67 189

in, as the young priest was robing. The navy-blue
men came first; then the grej'^s, very much larger in
number. The officials and their wives mounted the
steps towards the gallery. Then there was a pause,
and the priest, feeling the heavy keys galling his leg,
took them out, and placed them on the table. He
was instantly tapped on the shoulder by the warder,
who stood by.

"You must not leave them off your person. Sir, even
for a moment."

The priest shivered, and just then the heavy clank,
clank of chains was heard; and, at a quick pace, twenty
or more convicts, dressed in hideous yellow, were
marched in. Each of these was fettered by long rods,
ankle to wrist.

"Dangerous prisoners!" whispered the warder. And
as the priest was taking up his chalice, he continued:

"You'll see the claimant in the Tichborne case right
under the gallery. You'll know him by his enormous
size."

But the priest had no eyes for such things that
morning; for as he emerged from the sacristy, and
walked up the long aisle of the chapel, he saw a sight
that froze him with horror. The prisoners sat on long
forms, and at the end of every two of these, seated
on a raised stool, back to the altar, and facing the
prisoners, was a warder, his right hand on his right knee
holding a revolver. It was horrible in God's own house,
and in the presence of the Prince of Peace. The young
priest, however, !;ot through the Mass as well as he
could, preached his little homily from a pulpit of
Portland Stone, — which had been made by the
Fenian prisoners at Portland, — and escaped to the
Sacristy, carrying with him the doleful image of that

190 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

prison scene, and yet with such music ringing in his
ears as he had never heard before. For the choir,
consisting mostly of the officers and their wives and
children, seemed to have been highly trained; and
one voice soared above all, like the voice of a seraph,
sent by God to show the outcasts and the degraded
what sweetness and holiness could be infused even
into the sordid conditions of their existence. What
was his surprise to learn that the voice was the voice
of a convict — a young Bank-Clerk from Liverpool,
who had changed some figures in his Ledger.

XXVIII

At Benediction, he met the same congregation,
heard the same voices again; but was startled to find
the Litany of the Blessed Virgin taken up and sung in
admirable time by the entire body of convicts. And,
as he listened, and heard these poor outcasts, the
offscouring of humanit}^, raising their voices and call-
ing on the "Morning Star," and "The Refuge of Sin-
ners" to pray for them, he realised for the first time the
Catholicism of that mighty Church that knows no
distinction, nor makes it; but takes all, even the
worst of criminals, under its maternal protection,
seeing neither the trappings of Kings, nor the vesture
of menials; neither the scarlet and ermine of the judge,
nor the coarse serge of the criminals, — seeing only
souls, souls to be gathered through communion with
her, into the ranks of the immortals.

The young priest, softened and penetrated with
these sentiments, was about to move homewards when
a warder said:

"There's a poor fellow, pretty bad. Sir — .1 fact,
we think he's insane; and probably it would be well
that you should see him."

He led the young priest upstairs, and at the head of
the stairs, he pointed to a long, low room, the ceiling
of which was supported by iron pillars.

"Our Infirmary!" he said. "That," pointing to a

192 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

man, who was standing near one of the pillars, and who
had lost his right arm, "is one of the Fenian prisoners.
The poor fellow, to whom I am bringing you, is
another."

He led him along a dim, dark corridor, with corru-
gated iron cells on either hand; stopped before a
door, took the keys from his belt, opened the door,
ushered the priest into a dark cell, locked the door, and
went away.

After the first moments of alarm at being locked into
a dark cell with a lunatic, the priest looked around,
and as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness,
aided a little by one tiny pencil of light which stole
down through a hole in the corner of the cell, he per-
ceived that it was entirely devoid of furniture of any
kind. There were the four walls of iron, the floor of
iron, the ceiling of iron, and no more. And not a
sound showed that there was a human being there,
besides himself. Then, he became conscious that there
was something huddled at his feet; and gradually he
saw the outline of a figure on the floor. Kneeling
down, he passed his hand over the man's forehead
and whispered:

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," said the faint voice. "I know you are a
priest."

And then the whole figure of the man became con-
vulsed with sobbing, as the tears rolled down his
cheeks.

"Where are your hands?" said the priest.

"I'm in a strait-jacket," said the voice, faintly.
"They think me insane and dangerous; and I suppose
I am."

"You don't speak like one, my poor fellow," said

A STORY OF '67 193

the priest. "Now, tell me your name, and all about
you."

"Myles Cogan; I was a Fenian — "

"Myles Cogan of Kilmorna!" said the priest, "who
was with Halpin at Slieve Ruadh?"

"Yes!" said the prisoner, faintly.

"Good God in Heaven!" said the priest. "Myles
Cogan reduced to this!"

For a few seconds he could not speak. He had read
all about that abortive rising; read the speeches of
the prisoners in the dock; followed them in their way
to English dungeons, and then lost them. And now,
Myles Cogan, the brave young Chief, the Bayard of
the time, " without fear, without reproach," reduced to
this. The tears of the young priest fell fast; whilst
he found it hard to control the rage and indignation
that consumed him at such unspeakable brutality.

"Now," he said, still kneeling, and trying to speak
in a composed voice, "tell me all your history since
you came here, keep back nothing, and I know you
won't exaggerate."

And so, there in the darkness of that horrid dungeon,
Myles poured out all his sorrows and despair into the
ear of that young sympathetic Irishman, who listened
with burning cheeks and dilated eyes to the horrible
story.

When all was ended, Myles said:

"One thing more. Father. I want to be reconciled
to God and his Church. Will you hear my confession?"

He did; and rising up, he whispered:

"Now cheer up! The darkest hour is just before
the dawn. You'll hear something very soon. Mean-
while pray. Here is a tiny crucifix. Keep it always

194 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

with you. It will remind you of Him, who has 'borne
our infirmities and carried our sorrows.'"

"I hope they won't take it from me," said Myles.

The priest touched the bell. The warder came up
and released him. As they passed the door of the
infirmary again, the young priest said:

"May I speak to that patient?" pointing to the
armless prisoner.

"I'm afraid not, Sir! He has not asked; and it is
against the regulations!"

The priest managed to gulp down some kind of
dinner that day; and in the refulgent glory of a
beautiful summer evening, he went out for a walk
along the moor. He went with one of the warders,
who was off duty, and who had offered to accompany
him. They strolled along the deep canal, or leat, that
brought water to the town and prison from the high
levels of the moorland; and there the warder, an Irish-
man, an ex warrant-officer in the Navy, told him
many things.

"There are the windows, Sir, where the French
prisoners, after the wars of Napoleon used sit, and
shout: ^Vive VEmpereur.' And there," pointing to
some rushes that seemed to grow out of a dismal swamp,
"are their graves. The place is a lake in winter!"

But probably, what surprised the good priest most
was the astonishing care taken of the health of the
prisoners.

"If they are out on the farm, and a shower of rain
comes down, they are instantly ordered home; and
every man must strip off his wet clothes, and put on
perfectly dried and well-aired ones. If a prisoner
tries to escape, we must never fire on him until the

A STORY OF '67 195

last extremity, and then we must never send a bullet
after him, but only slugs to maim him."

"Pretty large number of bad characters here?"
"Yes! And yet we have very little trouble. They
are clever fellows; and they know they are well-
treated. Why, bless you. Sir! 'tis the same old fellows
always come back to us. I take a fellow down to
Tavistock today, and say good-bye! Three months
after, I am ordered down on escort. There is the same
old chap again! 'Hallo! This you! Carter.' 'Yes,
Sir! Back again to the old diggings, Sir; no place
like them.' You see. Sir, the grey jacket tells on them;
and everyone knows they are ticket-of-leave, and no
one will employ them. They won't go to the work-
house. Anything but that. So they break their
leave; or commit some petty theft; and here they
come back to us again."

"Then they must be well-treated!" said the priest.
"Certainly. Any prisoner will tell you he would
prefer five years' penal servitude to two years' im-
prisonment in a county gaol."

"Ah, indeed! And what is the secret of all this
humane treatment. The general impression is that
the prisoners are treated with the grossest cruelty!"
"Cruelty? God bless you, no. Sir! We daren't!"
"How is that? No one could ever know!"
"Know? Why, God bless you, Sir, everything is
known. There is an inquest on every prisoner that
dies here. And if there's neglect, or cruelty, won't
the Press ring with it? If a prisoner that tried to
escape was shot dead, we'd never hear the end of it.
'Tis the Press, Father — the Press is everything; and
the Press is the Devil!"

"I see!" said the priest, drawing in his breath in a

196 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

whisper. "That explains many things. When does
the Governor leave in the morning?"

"Half-past nine, Sir! He asked you to be at the
Lodge not later. There is a tough drive across the
moor."

"All right! I shall be there!" said the priest.

XXIX

They drove across the moor together, Major-
Governor and young Irish priest; but spoke not a word
about prisoners or prison-discipline, although it was
a subject that was uppermost in the minds of both.
They parted at Tavistock station with mutual assur-
ances that the visit was pleasant for both.

A few nights after, as the Home Secretary was pass-
ing into the House through the Lobby after dinner, he
was accosted by a certain Irish Member, who thrust a
paper into his hands, and said:

" Would you be good enough to read that letter before
I send it to the Press?"

The Home Secretary was in excellent humour, and
he said:

"Most certainly. With pleasure!"

This was a mistake, however. It was a pretty slack
night, nothing of a controversial character before the
House; so he sat back on the ministerial benches, and
commenced to read the letter at his ease. As he pro-
ceeded, however, his face lengthened, he sat erect,
and continued to read with eyes that flamed beneath
frowning brows. Once or twice he looked across the
floor of the House and saw the Irish Member steadily
watching him. He folded the letter, unfolded it, and
read it again.

He then left the House, and signalled to the Member
to accompany him.

"I have read this letter," he said, as they passed

198 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

into the library. "I think it is a gross exaggeration.
Do you know the writer?"

"Yes, well! Depend on it, every word in that letter
is true."

"But it is impossible, my dear Sir; I have heard
about this prisoner. He has been reported as intracta-
ble and insubordinate from the first days of his
imprisonment. You know there must be prison dis-
cipline — "

"I understand all these platitudes," said the Member,
hotly. "But here are facts. Here is a splendid type
of young Irish manhood reduced almost to a condition
of imbecility by brutal and merciless treatment. I
want to know what you intend doing in the matter!"

"Nothing, I can do nothing. I cannot interfere.
The case has already been brought under my notice,
not in the exaggerated form of this letter. I made
inquiries — "

"May I ask who brought it under your notice?"
queried the Member.

"An official of the Government. I made minute
inquiries, received the Governor's report, and decided
there was no room for interference on the part of the
Government."

"And this is still your decision?"

"Certainly. We cannot interfere with the internal
discipline of our prisons. It would lead to intermi-
nable confusion."

"Very good. That is your decision. This is mine.
Tonight I shall have a hundred copies of this letter
struck off; and tomorrow a hundred copies will be
sent to the newspapers in the British Empire, America,
and the Continent. Then, we shall hear no more of
Siberian horrors."

A STORY OF '67 199

"But what if the letter is refuted and contradicted?
Do you think the letter of a young clergyman will
weigh in the mind of the British public against the
authoritative statements of officials?"

"The British public be damned!" said the Member.
"It is to Ireland, and America, and France, and Ger-
many, and Russia, it will appeal. You pose as humani-
tarians before the world. With all your damned
hypocrisy, you compare the mild treatment of English
prisons with Siberian salt-mines and the Devil's Island.
Now, I have a chance of showing you up in your true
colours, before the world. Here is a political prisoner,
no ordinary criminal, — a gentleman by education,
who, because he embarked on a foolish revolution
that was crushed in a couple of hours, has been sen-
tenced to life-long imprisonment and there reduced
by brutal treatment to a condition of insanity. That
is what will speed on the wings of the Press before
forty-eight hours."

The Home Secretary looked disturbed.

"What do you propose?" he said, handing back
the letter.

" This," said the Member, promptly. " Whether you
like it or not, you'll have to grant a complete amnesty
to your Irish political prisoners before many months
are over — "

The Minister made a gesture of dissent.

"Time will tell," said the Member. "Meanwhile,
what I do not propose, but demand, is this. That a
commission of two gentlemen, I don't care who they
are, shall proceed at once to Dartmoor prison, shall
see this prisoner in his dark cell and in his strait-jacket;
shall interrogate him, and then the warders separately,
and let me have their report. And mark you, if

200 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Myles Cogan dies in that dungeon, there are desperate
men in Ireland that will take a fearful revenge — "

"Yes! I am aware of all that," said the Minister.
"Your countrymen don't stop at trifles."

"Not when they are face to face with brutal despo-
tism," said the Member. "But your decision? Time
presses."

"I see no objection," said the Minister. "I shall
send the Commission you demand. It is unusual,
but so are the circumstances."

''Very!" said the Member. "But mark you — no
time is to be lost; and there are to be no officials sent.
We know how these scoundrels back up each other."

Hence, a few days after, Myles Cogan was helped
by two warders to the Governor's office. Hardened
by experience and his dealings with poor, degraded
humanity as he was, the Major's heart smote him, as
he looked at the wreck of the man who now stood
before him. Had he been a man of weak nerves, he
would not have remained a moment alone with that
emaciated form, those sunken eyes that seemed to
glare at him like a wild beast's, that mass of white,
dirty hair, unkempt and standing up, a crop of bristles.
But he dismissed the warders, and motioned Myles
to a chair. The latter sank into it wearily; and, at
once, through sheer weakness, his head sank down
between his knees.

The Governor watched that pathetic figure for a
few minutes. Then he touched the bell. A warder
appeared, to whom he whispered something. And
very soon, his own maid came into the room bearing
a tray with some soup and wine. He beckoned all to
depart; and, taking the bowl of soup, he stood over

A STORY OF '67 201

Myles for a moment. Then he touched his shoulder.
M34es sat up; and the Governor placed the vessel to
his lips. He drank it eagerly, ravenously, with the
appetite of a famished man. Then the Governor
compelled him to swallow two glasses of wine rapidly;
and the human face came back, and the wild beast look
departed.

When the maid returned to remove the tray, a little
girl, the Major's youngest child, crept in with her,
holding fast by the girl's apron. With dilated eyes she
stared at the gaunt figure in the chair; then ran over,
and nestled near her father. The moment the eyes of
Myles Cogan rested on the pretty figure, he seemed
to undergo a transformation. His form seemed to
dilate; a light came into his eyes, and Hope stole into
his heart. No wonder! Accustomed as he had been
for nigh on ten years to see nothing but what was
harsh and revolting and repulsive, it seemed to him
that Heaven was opened now, and looked down on the
bleeding earth. Bad as Nature was in that cold for-
bidding moorland, where never was seen tree or bush
or flower, where the very winds, unlike the soft, caress-
ing winds of Ireland, were harsh and dry and stifling,
yet Nature, in the guise and form of men, was worse.
Those twisted, gnarled, fiendish faces of the criminals
were hardly more repulsive than the stern, rigid coun-
tenances of the officers, from which every trace of pity
and humanity was eliminated. On Sundays, the
voices of the choir brought back one tender feeling
for the moment; and the faces of a few women, the
wives or daughters of the officers, touched a human
chord, and made it vibrate. But this was but a
moment in the long eternity of anguish; it was as the
little bird-song to the chained prisoner down there

202 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

at Chillon beneath the waters of the lake. And now,
he was face to face with a child — and an exceedingly-
beautiful child. Her great round eyes stared at him
in pity and wonderment. She tossed the curls from
her eyes and forehead with all the unconscious coquetry
of childhood; and Myles stared at her, stared and
wondered, whilst he felt his heart, that had been a
stone in his breast for ten long years, was actually
becoming human again.

The Governor noted all this, and said:

"Go and shake hands, Morwenna!"

The child hesitated. Myles Cogan was not an
attractive object in his prison dress.

"Go, Morwenna, and shake hands. He has been
ill and weak!"

This touched the child; and she went over; and
fixing her round, wondering eyes on his face, as if
seeking to read his thoughts, she put out her tiny
hand. He would have cheerfully gone back to his
dreary cell then, if he could only take that child in
his arms and kiss her. But he felt he dared not. He
took the tiny fingers, and lifted them to his lips; and
then, suddenly, his whole frame was convulsed in a
fit of hysterical sobs, that shook him, until he lost all
control, and finally wept silent tears, that were sweet
and bitter unto him.

The Governor touched the bell. A warder appeared.

"Hickson," he said, "this prisoner is altogether
exempt from every kind of manual work in future.
You understand?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"He will attend here at my office every morning at
9.30; and I shall take it upon me to arrange his work.
You may remove him!"

XXX

"Amnesty! Amnesty! Amnesty!" was the one cry
that rang around Ireland these momentous years.
It was uttered at public meetings; it was printed on
public placards; it was the theme of all political
speeches; it took precedence of tenant-right and
land-purchase and every other question, even of the
most pressing importance, in the resolutions that were
formulated, spoken to, and passed with acclamation
at every public meeting. And, at last, England yielded,
took her hand off the throats of these poor labourers
and artisans, and set them free. It has taken this
England six hundred years to learn the lesson that it
is by hanging, quartering, and imprisoning, she has
kept the idea of Irish nationality intact; and that
it is by indifference, or affected kindness, she can make
Ireland a West Anglia.

And so, one fine morning, the other Fenian prisoners
were released, and went on their way rejoicing. Myles
Cogan was kept back for a week.

How did he view it? Well, there were conflicting
emotions in his mind. Recent circumstances had
made his lot easy, and even comfortable; and he
dreaded going out into the world, and facing the battle
of life again. But liberty! liberty! Ah, yes! That
priceless privilege — was this to be disdained? As-
suredly, no!

He stood, on a warm summer morning, outside the

204 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Governor's house. The groom was at the horse's head.
To the left, where the granite quarry was, he saw the
convicts, harnessed to the immense float, toiling
wearily up the steep ascent. He was done with that
for ever. The Governor came out, and Myles said,
in a bashful way:

"May I have one little favour, Major?"

"What is it?"

"Just to say. Good-bye! to your little girl!"

"Certainly; and just look here, Cogan! That
grey suit is pretty well known in England at least.
There is some money coming to you for clerical work;
and when you get to Bristol, perhaps, an overcoat
would be no harm!"

He gave Myles some notes; and called out the child.
She came shyly, and bashfully; Myles took her hand,
and kissed it, and said:

"Good-bye!"

They mounted the trap; and, in an hour and a half,
parted at Tavistock station.

Myles, still weak and with shattered nerves, leaned
up against a metal pillar, his small valise on the ground
near him. The bell rang. The mighty engine, mon-
ster of steel and brass, rolled in, and made the plat-
form vibrate. Myles felt sick, and would have lost
his train, but that a porter touched his arm, and said:

"Are you travelling?"

"Yes. To Bristol!"

"No time to lose. Get aboard quick. What class?"

"Third."

"There you are."

He leaned back in the carriage, and thanked God it
was almost empty. He looked eagerly and suspi-
ciously at the few passengers; but they were buried in

A STORY OF '67 205

their newspapers, and very soon the easy gliding motion
of the train soothed his quivering nerves, and he leaned
back, and watched the landscape as it flitted by. And
oh! how beautiful it was! To eyes, accustomed for
ten years to a barren moorland, with all its savagery
of rocks, and stones and scrub, how sweet were the
green meadows, and the yellowing cornfields, and the
great elms that lined the road, and the summer haze
shrouding it all. The signal houses, smothered in
roses, that seemed to be struggling with one another
in their vast profusion, were hardly less attractive than
the English child-faces, so healthy and ruddy, that
thronged the doors and stared unafraid at the mon-
ster thundering by; and the lazy kine, knee-deep in
grass, lifted their heavy heads and stared stupidly
at them; but it was peace and plenty and freedom
they symbolised.

At the stations where they stopped, and took in
fresh contingents of passengers, the dread of being
noticed as a released convict and ticket-of-leave man
came back to him and set his heart beating. But,
no one seemed to notice him. They arranged for
their own comfort and thought of nothing else.

At last, they rolled into the station at Bristol,
Myles gripped his valise, inquired at what hour the
night boat for Cork started, and made his way towards
the quays. Here he secured a berth, stowed away
his valise, and went back to the city. He entered a
draper's shop, and asked for a Melton overcoat.

The attendant looked him all over, noticed the coarse
grey jacket, and said:

"Ours is a cash business. We give no credit!"

"And I ask none!" said Myles. "If you cannot
suit me, I can go elsewhere!"

206 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"I beg pardon," said the man, eyeing him curiously.

He selected a Melton, then a stiff felt hat, and knew
he was now disguised. Yet, when he entered the street,
and a policeman watched him, and even followed him
a few steps, he felt faint and disheartened again.

He entered a restaurant, sat at a small table in an
obscure corner, and asked for coffee, cold meat, and
rolls. He was relieved to see that the guests did not
uncover at the other tables. He was afraid to lift his
hat and exhibit the closely-clipped hair of the convict.

As he lifted the coffee to his lips, his hand shook,
and the attendant said sympathetically:

"You have been ill, sir?"

"Very," he said, grateful for the words, yet afraid
the girl had understood his secret. "My nerves are
quite shattered; but I shall soon be all right. I am
going back to my native air."

He was hoping she would remain and continue the
conversation. Her woman's voice, softly toned, and
her presence, and the very swish of her garments, spoke
of gracious things, and threw a glow of sympathy over
a nature that had been congealed under the iron rigour
of the prison.

But to his disappointment, she turned away; and
said in her cold, English fashion:

"This is your account, Sir. I hope you will have a
pleasant journey."

He lingered a little while; and then went down to
the boat. Steam was up, and there were some signs of
life. He went down to examine his berth; and found
that the little cabin was right over the screw, and
there were but two berths. The other had not been
engaged. He bought a packet of cigarettes from the
steward, and went on deck. The passengers were

A STORY OF '67 207

coming in; and he got away into a corner, where he
could see, without being seen. They were the usual
types — paterfamilias with his little flock of careless
children, single ladies closely veiled, swaggering com-
mercial travellers, who crossed over every three months,
a few soldiers, returning from furlough, etc. Then
sauntered down slowly, and as if travelling was their
daily occupation, half a dozen stalwart bronzed fellows,
whom he easily recognised as cattle-dealers. They
had brought their beasts from the rich plains of Cork
and Tipperary to the English market, and were going
back with English gold in their pockets.

"I wonder if I spoke to them, and told them who I
was, would they recognise me?" he thought. But,
he was not going to face a rebuff, and kept back in the
shade.

A young waiter came up, napkin in hand, and said:

"Will you dine, Sir? Dinner on the table at seven."

"No, I have dined," said Myles. "I suppose I can
have a cup of tea later on?"

"Certainly, Sir. Any time after half-past eight."

"When do we start?"

He was eager to leave that detested English shore
for ever.

"Just off, Sir! You see!"

And silently, slowly, the engines were pushing out
the boat from the quays; and friends waved Adieux
to friends on shore.

"Thank God!" said Myles, with a sigh of relief.
"Now for the hills of Ireland!"

The outgoing tide swept them slowly down the
narrow channel between the high cliffs of Clifton,
under the lofty suspension bridge, until the river
broadened out into an estuary, the shores receding on

208 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

either side, and the lights beginning to twinkle faint
and far and single on the Cornish coast; but some-
times in groups, as of swarms of fire-flies, where the
great towns of South Wales were massed on the right
of the channel.

Myles had tea; and again got back to his little
retreat on the deck, unaccosted and unnoticed, as he
desired. There he gave himself up to meditations,
some sweet, some bitter, some hopeful, but more
despondent, as he reviewed his past, and looked for-
ward to the future.

At ten o'clock, he sought his berth, undressed par-
tially, and lay down. The cool, night air came in
through the porthole, and played across his hair and
forehead. The crunching of the screw kept him
awake for a little while; and then he sank into a deep,
profound slumber.

He was awakened by sounds of swabbing on deck;
and he swoke in terror. They were the patter of the
feet of the convicts on the stone corridor outside his
cell. The cabin-door opened, and, mistaking his posi-
tion through confusion of sense and habits of ten
years, he said:

"I slept out. Sir; I never heard the bell!"

The steward stared a little, and then said:

"Perhaps you would like a cup of tea, Sir?"

In an instant, the situation broke on his startled
senses; and alarmed and angry with himself at such
a betrayal, he stammered:

"The very thing I was going to ask you. Will it
take long?"

"Just a few minutes. Sir. And a biscuit, or a cut of
bread and butter?"

"All right," said Myles. "Either will do."

A STORY OF '67 209

The door closed; and he lay back in his berth,
wondering at his own folly, and wondering what the
man would think. And then he gave himself up to a
pleasant thought, that never more should he hear the
horrible clangour of that morning-bell, which tore
through his brain, and tortured his nerves at five
o'clock every day that had dawned on him, and broken
the sweet forgetfulness of sleep during all these weary
years.

The steward brought in the tea and biscuits; and
Myles, afraid that the man would see and notice the
coarse shirt he wore, said:

"Place it on the pedestal, till it cools. Where are
we?"

"Off the Wexford coast. Sir. We passed the Tuskar
an hour ago."

"The night was calm?"

"Not a breeze, Sir. No one sick on board this
night."

"And we get to Cork — when?"

"About ten o'clock. We have to creep our way up
the river."

"Of course. At what hour is breakfast?"

"Nine sharp!"

"But a hungry fellow could have it at half-past
eight, I suppose?"

" Of course. What will you have. Sir? "

"Coffee and some cold beef and ham!"

"All right, Sir!"

Myles took the tea, rose up and dressed and went
on deck. Everyone knows the delightful sensation
of coming on deck on a fine summer morning, watching
the foam speeding by, and drinking in draughts of cool,
sweet air. Myles drew in, and filled his chest with

210 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

volumes of that pure, clean air, allowing its salt to
sting him, and its odours of brine and seaweed to
saturate every sense. Then he went to breakfast,
and, as he so much desired, he was alone.

When he came on deck again, the tall cliffs of Bally-
cotton, red and black beneath, but glittering on the
turf of the summit with a vast profusion of wild flowers,
the yellow broom and the purple wild thyme conspicu-
ous amidst their more vulgar brethren, rose right
above the vessel.

"Ah, thou hapless motherland!" he said. "What
a martyrdom thy lovers and thy sons have to bear!
And yet, there is thy eternal magic, which brings us
back, willing slaves, to thy feet again!"

In an hour, they were off Cork Harbour, the vessel
swung round, and, pointing to the north, sailed in
beneath the frowning ramparts of Camden and
Carlisle.

As Myles watched with admiration the fine scene
that lay before him, — the amphitheatre of hills
surrounding the harbour, the deep long hulls of the
three and four-masted wheat-ships that lay at anchor,
the little tugs and tenders that seemed to be flying
everywhere, a voice behind him said:

"That's a gang of convicts crossing the gangway to
Haulbowline."

Myles started violently, and looked around.

It was an ordinary commercial traveller, who called
his attention to the long row of prisoners, who, in the
unmistakable grey jackets, and with the unmistakable
shuffling step, were moving slowly across the bridge
that connected Spike and Haulbowline.

It took him a few seconds to recover his composure.
The horror of the convict life seemed to pursue him.

A STORY OF '67 211

Then he gazed steadily, and yet with some emotion,
at the prisoners, and said:

"Indeed?"

"Yes," continued the man, "that is Spike Island.
You were never round there before, Sir?"

"Never," said Myles. "I have been away for ten
years and am returning to see Ireland once more,"

"You'll find a good many changes in ten years, Sir!"

"I fear so," said Myles,

"In fact everything is changing," said tTie man,
puffing away at a huge cigar whilst he spoke. "The
Government now are about to deport these convicts
to Portland or Dartmoor, and fortify the place. The
harbour then will be absolutely impregnable."

At the mention of "Dartmoor," Myles flushed up,
and darted an angry look at the man. But evidently
nothing was meant. And Myles said:

"When that takes place. Spike Island will only be
remembered as the place where Mitchell spent two days
before his deportation to Van Diemen's Land; and
where Edward Walsh stole in in the twilight, and
touched his hand, and said: 'Mitchell, you are the
one man I envy in Ireland tonight.'"

"Indeed," said the traveller. "I never heard.
That was a long time ago, I suppose?"

"So long it seems to be forgotten," said Myles.

"Good-morning, Sir," said the man, stiffly, and
moved away.

When they arrived at Cork, Myles hastened to a
hotel. He wanted a clean shave, for his white beard
had grown, a good wash, and a lunch that would answer
for dinner.

When he had shaved, he drew the mirror near the
window, and started back at the dread change.

212 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"My own mother wouldn't know me!" he thought.
"I shouldn't have shaved!"

But it was done; and his one thought then was,
how would Agnes bear it.

He went to the railway station, saw a head-line on
the posters:

"Last of the Fenian prisoners released!"
bought a paper, and after much searching found in
an obscure end of a column:

"We understand that the last of the Fenian prison-
ers, Cogan, was released from Dartmoor yesterday.
Some will remember that Cogan was sentenced to
death ten years ago, and that the capital sentence was
committed to penal servitude for life."

That was all. The word "Cogan," the easy way in
which all his ten long years of horror were spoken of;
the insignificance of his release, and the unimportance
of the whole affair, hurt him deeply.

"Yea, this is my reward," he said bitterly, as he
took his seat in the railway carriage. "This is the
people for whom poor Halpin said a life might be
given cheerfully."

Then the loneliness of the Irish landscape smote
him, and sank his spirits deeper. The long, receding
fields, half-scorched by the summer sun, the tiny
rivulets that crept exhausted down the cliffs, the
absence of human habitations, the whole country
seeming to be inhabited only by sheep and oxen, the
miserable ruins of mud cabins and the more melancholy
remains of crumbling abbeys and castles; and, above
all, that lonely, melancholy atmosphere that seems
to hang down over Ireland, even on a summer day,
plunged him in a kind of stupid sorrow that was very
near to tears.

A STORY OF 'G7 213

He was tired, weary, and disheartened when he
reached the station at Kilmorna. He passed out
unnoticed and unknown, flung his valise on a side-car,
and said:

"Millbank!"

The driver looked at him with that glance of sus-
picious curiosity that is so common in Ireland; and
several times as they drove along the mile of road to
Millbank, Myles felt that the fellow's eyes were study-
ing him keenly. He knew the lad well. He was one
of the "byes" that went out with himself in '67. But
he was too dispirited to take notice; and he was
anxious to avoid recognition and to secure a little
quiet at any cost.

At last they drew up at the little iron gate. It was
three o'clock in the afternoon! Yes! there was the
same old house, the same gravelled walk, the same
shrubs on either side. He dismounted, paid the driver,
whose curiosity was now excited to the utmost, and
who drew his car along the road, and between some
trees where he could make observations. Myles went
slowly up the walk, and knocked. A strange servant
opened the door, stared at him when he asked for Miss
Cogan, and left him standing in the hall. In a few
moments, Agnes came down stairs. Years and trouble
had changed her but little. She made a little bow to
the stranger; and, as he said nothing, she scrutinised
him more closely. Then, with a little scream of terror
and delight, she put her arms around his neck, drew
down his face to hers, and kissed it passionately; and
then ran away, and buried her face in a sofa pillow,
unable to control her anguish.

The driver, who had been watching the little drama,
now came to his own conclusion; and flinging his

214 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

whip on the cushions, and not caring what became of
horse or car, he tore up the gravelled walk, grasped
Myles Cogan's hand, and shook it as if he would dis-
locate it, muttering:

"Wisha, damn your sowl, Myles Cogan — what a
way you have threated us after all our waiting! Sure
we thought you wor comin' around by Dublin and
that a hundred thousand men would meet you! Oh!
Mother of God! What a skeleton these English devils
have made of you! But wait. Master Myles! Miss
Agnes," he cried, raising his voice," don't let Masther
Myles go to bed too early tonight. I'm goin' to rouse
the five parishes round; and the divil such a sight
was never seen before — "

"Now, now, Jem," said Myles, "I'm very weak; and
I want rest badly."

"And you'll have plinty of it, Masther Myles, but,
begor, you can't cheat us in that way. Good-bye
till eight o'clock."

And surely enough at eight o'clock, a vast concourse
of people did gather around the gate at Mill'' T>k. The
upper classes kept aloof — professior . n >?_i, rich
shopkeepers, to whom the word "Fenian" was an
abomination. But the people were there — all his
old comrades, who turned away weeping when they
saw his cadaverous features, young lads, who had
heard their fathers speak of him; women with children
in their arms, whom they bade to look up and see the
Fenian Chief, and the man, who had "suffered for his
country." The police, too, were there with their
note-books, for Myles Cogan was but a ticket-of-leave
man. But he was too weak and dispirited to talk
treason. He said a few words of thanks, told them
that he was unchanged and unchangeable, spoke

A STORY OF '67 215

generously of his old comrades and the men who had
gone to prison with him, and retired.

Later on, Father James came up. He grasped the
hand of the lad he had known from infancy, said a few
cheery words; and then, seeing the terrible change
wrought in the handsome boy he had known, his voice
broke, and he sank into a chair and wept.

BOOK II

BOOK II
XXXI

And now commenced for Myles Cogan a stiff strug-
gle for life. His business had gone down rapidly dur-
ing his imprisonment, the weak hands of a young girl
being unable to control or maintain it. Most of his
customers had gone over to his rival, bimpson from
Sligo, who had brought in new ideas and new methods
from the pushing North. It needed all the fierce
threats of his old Fenians to keep the men at work at
the Mill, higher wages and better terms being offered
from the other side; and, whilst the country people
stood valiantlj'' by the old house, and still purchased
there their flour and meal and bran and pollard, many
of the townsfolk abandoned the shop, and went else-
where. A few of the gentry, notwithstanding their
aversion to Fenianism, stood gallantly by the young
girl who seemed so helpless; and these few helpers
alone kept the firm from bankruptcy.

Myles cordially approved of Father James' advice
against selling the estate, although he was now pre-
pared at any moment to see Agnes realising all her
day-dreams by entering a convent.

He took off his coat gallantly, however, and bent
himself with free valour to the task that lay before
him. And, without for a moment condescending to
seek custom from those who had abandoned him, he
managed by careful advertisement to win back a good

220 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

many of his former supporters; and, after a little
time, he began to see that his business could be made a
paying one again. The one thing that galled him
was his monthly report at the police-office as a ticket-
of-leave man; but here the Serjeant came to his relief
by appointing a meeting once a month on the bridge,
where Myles formally reported himself.

His inner life had undergone a complete transforma-
tion. Deprived of the consolations of religion in prison,
he realised their importance now; and he threw him-
self into the work of personal sanctification with a zest
and zeal that astonished his sister and Father James.

"He'll wind up in Melleray," said Father James,
one day in his hearing.

"I shouldn't be surprised," said Myles. "Every
Irishman is born a soldier or a monk. I have been
the former. Maybe I shall put on the cowl before
I die."

He resolutely, however, refused any honours or
positions in the different societies or confraternities
which he joined. He preferred, he said, to serve in the
ranks. Many of his old comrades, who had been
imbued with the anti-clerical spirit since '67, resenting
the interference of the church, and who had therefore
abstained from the Sacraments, he brought back and
reconciled with the Church. He helped on Young
Men's Societies, Hurling Clubs, Coursing Clubs, but
again, he refused all municipal offers. He had no
ambition, he said.

And as all the old fierce passionate love for Ireland
was undimmed and undiminished, although he knew
that the dream of independence was impracticable, he
watched the political movements of the time with
interest, but without sympathy.

A STORY OF '67 221

All the energies of the nation seemed now concen-
trated in securing the land of the country for the farmers.
The three F's was the political cry of the moment.
No one could foresee the tremendous revolution that
was impending, with all the vast train of consequences,
moral and material, which it entailed. Myles had
no sympathy with it. He hated tyranny in any shape
or form, and would gladly break down the domination
of any class; but it was a sectional and local patriotism
which did not appeal to him. To his consternation he
beheld one day the old flag with its watchword: "Ire-
land for the Irish" pulled down, and the new standard
with its more selfish motto: "The Land for the people"
erected for the guidance of the nation. And who had
done it? Verily, his brother Fenian, and fellow-convict
in Dartmoor, McDermot. And sure enough the war-
cry caught on. The heather was ablaze, and the
conflagration spread like a prairie-fire. The appeal
was made to the interests of four hundred thousand men
and their families; and they flung the three F's to
the wind, and demanded that all dual ownership should
cease. The Gall should go, and the Gael come in to
his rightful inheritance.

One Sunday morning, Myles received a brief note
from McDermot, asking him to meet the latter at
Kilmorna station, where he would arrive exactly at
twelve o'clock, on his way to address a monster meet-
ing at a place about six miles distant.

Myles had seen little of McDermot in Dartmoor,
the discipline particularly exercised towards keeping
the Fenians apart, being very strict. They could not
help, however, seeing each other at work, in chapel,
and in the exercise ground. McDermot, crushed to

222 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

pieces himself, and enduring his own crucifixion, did
not know the extent of Myles Cogan's sufferings, until
the released Fenians gave to the world that sad record
of human brutality. But now he was eager to see him,
and to enlist his influence on the side he had chosen.

Myles was at the station punctually. There was
a vast crowd, with waving banners, brass bands and
reed bands; and a strong body of police in their great
coats, their ammunition slung around their necks, and
the butts of their rifles resting on the ground.

McDermot courteously acknowledged the cheers and
plaudits of the multitude; but looking around anx-
iously, he saw Myles and shook him by the hand, and
said:

"Come in here to the refreshment-room. We shall
be alone, and I have much to say. I must have some-
thing to eat against the day; and we can talk in the
meantime!"

The two men went in. The meal was ordered; and
without any preliminary, McDermot said:

"I want you to join us!"

"Quite impossible!" said Myles.

"Why?"

"Because it seems a departure from all our principles."

"I cannot see that. How?"

"Our first principle always has been to band all
Irishmen together, and not to set class against class."

"True; and for what purpose?"

"To make Ireland a nation, of course!"

"You cherish that idea still?"

"Certainly, although I have abandoned the idea of
separation. In fact, I never entertained it!"

"T remember," said ^McDermot. "You said as
much in your speech from the dock. But, how can

A STORY OF '67 223

you make Ireland a nation with an English garrison
in your midst, hostile to all the aims and aspirations
of the people?"

"They think they are Irishmen, and have a right
to live in Ireland, I suppose. If England protects them
in saving their property, how can you blame them if
they look to England?"

"Yes! But, if they, clinging to the old ideas of
ascendancy, and not seeing, or rather refusing to see,
the change in the economic conditions of the time,
persist in demanding rents which the land cannot bear,
and are prepared to exterminate our people if they
cannot meet their unjust demands, can we regard them
any longer as Irishmen, and not as wolves that must
be hunted down at any cost?"

Myles was staggered. He saw he had been dream-
ing; and stern, daylight facts were placed under his
eyes. McDermot saw it, and persisted:

"Are you prepared to see the whole Catholic Celtic
population exterminated?"

"No! But neither am I prepared to sanction in-
justice. You are seeking to promote a just cause by
ignoble means."

"How?"

"By the breaking of contracts, the subversion of
society, the possibility of crime — "

"Cogan, were you a Fenian?" said McDermot.

"I think I was," said Myles. "But the Fenians com-
mitted no crimes. They went out in the open field,
prepared to give a life for a life. They never fired
into unprotected houses, nor docked the tails of cattle,
nor cut off the hair of young girls. McDermot — "

" Well? Be brief. My time is short, and I am wast-
ing it," said McDermot, peevishly.

224 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Beware! You are an honourable man; and, if I
mistake not, a thoroughly conscientious man. Think
— Will the material benefit accruing to the farmers of
Ireland balance the moral deterioration that must
follow, when you appeal only to selfish instincts?"

"Good-bye, Cogan — "

"A moment! Have you thought it over?"

"Thought it over? Good heavens, man, whatever
else was I thinking of over there in Dartmoor, night
and day, for ten years? Do you think I wouldn't
have gone mad, as you did, if I had not one hope to
build on, one grand project to effect? Out on the
moors, in the dark cells, even at Mass, God forgive
me! did that thought ever leave my mind, that I would
strike England in her most vulnerable part, and, by
driving out the landlords, sap the very foundations of
British power in Ireland? Yes! My patient hate is
bearing fruit. Do you see those men outside? They
are but a handful to the thousands who will throng
around me this afternoon to hear their gospel of
redemption. And you won't come? I had hoped to
have you standing by my side to revenge Dartmoor.
Well, your blood is tamer than mine, though you
suffered more. When the last shoneen takes his
ticket at Kingstown, and the people, our people, our
dear Catholic people, can see the smoke, rising from
their chimneys without fear that the agent can see it,
then I'll sing my Nunc Dimittis, for I shall have shewn
England what convict 123 could do. Good-bye!"

He turned away; but came back.

"You were born in ease, Cogan, the son of a rich
merchant, I believe. I was born in a poor farmer's
cottage; and even that was not left us. I saw my
father and mother flung out on the road in the

A" STORY OF '67 225

snow. Do you think I have ever forgotten; can ever
forget?"

Myles turned away. Pathetic though the picture
was which McDermot summoned up, somehow it
revealed the personal note of revenge; and McDermot
fell in his esteem.

XXXII

But McDermot did himself injustice by such words;
and he did himself double injustice in the opening
sentence of his speech that day at the great tenant-
right meeting —

"We, Irishmen, have one great fault — we are too
ready to forgive and forget."

It would seem then that the driving power behind
that vast organisation which he was building up with
such pains, and which eventually drove him back to
Dartmoor, was hate —

The patient hate, and vigil long
Of him, who treasures up a wrong.

It is a Celtic characteristic; and McDermot was a
Celt of the Celts. And yet, one would rather believe
that it was for a higher motive than mere revenge he
brooded over that tremendous plan which resulted in
the emancipation of the Irish serfs. At least, it was a
vigorous and comprehensive intellect that devised it,
and then helped, under all manner of toil and suffering,
to see it carried to its ultimate issue. Yet, there was
a great deal in that last remark he addressed to Myles.
It will be found that the more comprehensive idea of
Irish nationhood has always been cherished by the
dwellers in the towns and cities of Ireland. To them
Ireland has been a whole — a homogeneous entity to
be welded more and more until it took on the consis-

A STORY OF '67 227

tency of a nation. The people of fioeks and herds can
only conceive of patriotism, as it affects the land.

Myles went home, saddened after the brief interview.
Clearly, he could take no further part in the doings of
the nation. Its new ambition never reached up to his
high ideals.

In another way he was convinced by a rude shock
that the political arena was not for him.

Mr. Fottrel had returned from his American trip,
where he had gathered some thousands of pounds for
the relief of the distressed Irish. He had not quite
reached that giddy summit from which he fell so dis-
astrously; but he had acquired sufficient popularity
and power to assume all the manner of a Dictator.

The Fenians in the North of England, especially in
Lancashire, had long cherished the idea of seeing a real,
live convict on the floor of the House of Commons;
and if he could appear in his ticket-of-leave garb, all
the better.

Hence, one morning, Myles received a sealed docu-
ment which he was ordered to present to Mr. Fottrel
at a convention which was to be held in Athlone at an
early date. Myles did not love Fottrel. He only
saw in him an ambitious man, who, by a certain glamour
of birth, and by the unmistakable services he rendered
to the people, seemed anxious to assume supreme power,
and to destroy the last vestiges of individual liberty.

"God knows," he thought bitterly, "these poor
serfs have never been able to hold themselves straight,
or to assume the attitude of freemen; but just now the
man puts his foot on their necks, and drives them into
an attitude of subjection worse than ever."

He attended the Convention, however. Everything

228 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

went smoothly, until the name of a person, rather
obnoxious to the clergy, was proposed as Parliamentary
Candidate. A little group of priests, huddled together
in a corner of the platform, made a weak murmur of
dissent. Fottrel raised a small white hand, and turn-
ing to the disaffected clergy he said:

"Gentlemen, let us be unanimous!" And they
meekly bowed before him.

Myles saw the little incident, and drew his own
conclusions. Evidently, to be unanimous was every-
thing. Private judgment and human liberty were at
an end.

He waited his opportunity. The members of the
Convention had dispersed and Myles waited in the
passage. Presently, Fottrel came along, arm in arm
with one of his supporters. Myles stepped forth and
raised his hat. Fottrel stared at him in a half-con-
scious manner for a moment — and passed on. Mylesj
stung by the supposed affront, followed, and tapping
Fottrel on the shoulder he said angrily:

"You'll probably have better manners when you
read this letter."

Fottrel broke the seal, but in a reluctant manner.
He cast his eyes along the document and studied the
names at the end. Then suddenly changing his whole
tone, he shook Myles cordially by the hand, and asked
him to dinner at the Shannon Hotel. Myles declined,
and went home.

A few weeks later he had a communication from a
leading politician in the little borough of B — town,
informing him that, at the command of Mr. Fottrel,
he was to be nominated for that borough on the follow-
ing Tuesday, and there would be no opposition. Myles
took his pen, and promptly wrote:

A STORY OF '67 229

"Sir —

'7 have received your letter, informing me that, by com-
mand of Mr. Fottrel, I am to be nominated member for
your borough next Tuesday. I have no wish for Parlia-
mentary honours, and I am doubtful if I coidd ever take
the oath of allegiance to England. Nevertheless, if I am
nominated as member for your Borough, not at the dicta-
tion of an individual, but by the unanimous, or quasi-
unanimous, votes of your constituency, free from all bias
and frotn all coercion, I shall give the matter sympa-
thetic consideration.

*' Yours truly,

"Myles Cogan."

He heard no more of the matter. In a few weeks,
an unknown man was elected member for B — town.
Some few burghers murmured; but the nation had
spoken, and elected its King.

What then were Myles Cogan's political principles?
Clearly he had no idea of practical politics, — of that
game of skill and science the wide world over where all
principles of probity and truth are cast to the winds,
and the whole thing resolves itself into a mimic war-
fare of plot and counterplot, of skilful lying and dis-
honest appeals to the worst, because most selfish,
interests of the people; and where, eventually, the
most eloquent or the most unscrupulous leader will
command the admiration and suffrages of the multi-
tude. It was all pitiful; and Myles saw how complete
must be the demoralisation of any nation under such
agencies. But, he could only stand aloof, and eat his
heart in silence. His dream of a united Ireland, all
classes agreeing to sink their differences in a cordial
acknowledgment of the nation's claims; his fond hope

230 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

that Ireland would keep aloof from the material degra-
dation of other nations, and be, what she had always
been, a centre of spiritual and intellectual illumination
to a world living in darkness and the shadow of death,
was not to be realised. He saw his great race aban-
doning all the splendid, if phantasmal, idealism of the
past, and hungering after the fieshpots of the successful
but degraded nations of the earth. And there was no
help. Not a voice was raised to recall the nation to
its old sense of honour; not an organ of public opinion
dared express a single sentiment that would breathe
of the old and sacred independence that sanctified
the individual, and saved the nation from corruption.
Myles felt he stood almost alone, wrapped up in the old
idealism of Mitchell and Davis. He clung to a dis-
honoured creed; and refused to apostatise, even though
the whole country ran after the gods of Baal.

XXXIII

Once he broke silence and reserve, and launched out
into a furious philippic against the Moonlighters and
Rapparees of the period. Some English papers attrib-
uted the murders and moonlight outrages, which
then were dishonouring the land, to a remnant of
Fenians, who still clung to the old idea of separation.
Myles was wroth at this. He had trust in the honour
of his old comrades; and he could never bring himself
to believe that the men of '67 would descend to the
commission of crime, which was made still more loath-
some by its very meanness. Charles Kickham had
issued a mild protest to the papers in the same sense.
Myles wrote a letter flaming with wrath and outraged
honour.

"I can only speak with certainty,'" ran one para-
graph, "of the men under my command and that of my
brave comrade, Halpin, and I can testify that amongst
these hundreds, who went out that night of March
5th, 1867, and left behind them home, and wives, and
children, not a man thought of himself, or what he was
to gain by it; not a man had an idea but of striking a
blow for Ireland's independence. There was no
thought of revenge or reprisals or gain. When the
police-barracks at Ballynockin were set on fire, the
Fenians took care that the women and children were
safe; and when Father Daly came up, and asked
Captain Mackay if he would save the lives of the police

232 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

if they surrendered, did not Mackay place his revolver
in the priest's hand, and bade him shoot him, if a hair
of their heads was injured? And do the public think
that men of that calibre would stoop to the commis-
sion of low crimes of paltry revenge? Can anyone
believe that these patriots of '67 were the men that
cut out the tongues of cattle, and docked the tails of
horses, and shattered the limbs of innocent men? No!
They might have been mistaken in their idea of an
emancipated Ireland. The world may call their action
folly — or madness; but no one shall ever dare impute
to them criminality, or base motives of greed and
revenge. Enthusiasts, fanatics — as you please: crim-
inals. No! They never soiled their flag with crime.
The wild justice of revenge was never a Fenian virtue!"

"That's all very well, Myles," said Father James,
after congratulating the writer on his loyalty to his
fellows. "But what about Clerkenwell? and what
about the Phoenix Park?"

"I'm surprised at you. Father James, not to know
better," said Myles, hotly. "Everyone knows that
that Clerkenwell explosion which pulled down the
Irish Church Establishment was a piece of utter stu-
pidity. Two or three fellows, believing that their
comrades were behind the prison wall, wanted to make
a breach there, so that they could step out, and be
free. They had no more idea of the power of the
explosive they used than a child knows of dynamite.
Why, if the prisoners had been in the yard at the
time, they would have been blown to atoms. It was
a piece of stupid folly, that entailed frightful conse-
quences. As to the Invincibles, they were no more
Fenians than you are. They couldn't have been.
They were all young men, some of them boys; and as

A STORY OF '67 233

there were fifteen years between '67 and '82, they could
never have been in our ranks. That's conclusive
enough; but I prefer to fall back on firmer ground
even — that is, that no Fenian, that I ever knew,
could be guilty of any participation in that awful and
dastardly crime. It was the act of butchers, not of
soldiers! No! Let our poor fellows stand or fall
by their principles. We listen to no voice but that
of the motherland."

''She is a barren motherland," said Father James,
moodily.

"Father James," said Myles, standing and confront-
ing his friend, — they were walking along the high
road that led towards the Shannon, "what have you
said? What treason is this?"

"No treason, but truth," the priest said bitterly.
The crimes, which then were staining the country
— above all, that supreme crime in the Phoenix Park —
had embittered him, and depressed him, as they embit-
tered and depressed many a brave priest throughout
Ireland. "What are we producing but a crop of mur-
ders and meaner crimes? Surely, no nation marched to
freedom through such means as these."

"We agree!" said Myles, in an altered tone.

"Now, look," said Father James. "I'm a poor,
ignorant priest. I know Latin enough to say Mass,
and read my breviary."

" You are always depreciating yourself, Father James.
That's not the opinion of your brethren."

"No matter," said the priest, "so long as I can see
things with my two eyes. We have no great men.
For sixty years we have not produced a decent artist
— that is, since Maclise died; nor a single sculptor,
since Hogan died; nor a single architect, since Barry

234 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

died. We have had one historian, Lecky; not a poet,
not a classical scholar, nor a great engineer. In the
arts and sciences, in everything that tends to exalt
and ennoble a nation, we are barren as the desert of
Sahara."

"I confess it never struck me in that light before,"
said Myles, thoughtfully, "probably, because I was
immersed in politics myself. How do you account for
it? And never say again, you are an ignorant man."

"Well, I am — ignorant enough, God knows!" said
Father James. "But one of these travelling book-
agents came around me with his soft sawder some
time ago, and got me to invest in some sort of an
Encyclopaedia. So I sometimes take it up, and it
sets me thinking. Come in here for a moment."

They were passing a country National School, and
the burr of a hundred voices came out on the soft, still
air. They entered; and after a few minutes. Father
James asked the master, a young, intelligent fellow,
to call up the Sixth Class. A dozen lads ranged them-
selves around.

"How many books of Euclid have they mastered?"
said the priest.

"Three, Sir!" said the teacher.

"Now boys, get your slates!" said the priest.

They produced their slates, spat on them, rubbed
them with their coat-sleeves, and stood erect.

The priest took the chalk, and marked on the black-
board a simple problem, or exercise. The teacher
interposed.

"They are not in the habit of doing cuts," he said.

"Why?"

The teacher looked abashed for the moment. Then
he said:

A STORY OF '67 235

"We don't teach cuts in Euclid. In fact, the boys
could not bear such application, and we have no time."

"But that is the only way to train the intellect,"
said the priest.

"I am aware, Sir, and that was the case formerly.
It can't be done, now."

"Why, I remember," continued the priest, "when
our heads were full of mathematical problems all day
long; and we went to sleep, dreaming of the trisection
of an angle."

"So I heard," said the teacher. "But these lads
would be only fit for an idiot ward, if we put them
through such discipline as that."

"The brain-power of the nation is weakened, then?"
said the priest.

"Perhaps!" said the teacher, dubiously. "But the
children are smarter — "

"And more superficial?"

"We must go with the times. Sir!" said the teacher.
"With twenty-three subjects to teach, and four hours
secular instruction each day, we cannot think out
problems, as if we were chess-players."

"I see," said the priest. "Good-day!"

"You see now, Myles," he continued, as they pro-
ceeded homewards, "the whole secret. It is the
eternal law of compensation. Before the famine years,
you had eight millions of stalwart people in the land.
There were no banks, because there was no money.
But there were giants, iron thewed, clean-skinned,
with white, perfect teeth, and nerves of steel. Why?
Because they nestled close to Mother Nature, took
her food from her hands*, and did her work. At five
o'clock in the morning, they were in her fields, bend-
ing down over the sickle and the scythe. Some of the

236 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

old men told me that the first day of the harvest, their
left arms were swollen up to the shoulders, just like
bolsters. They went in at eight o'clock to a thundering
breakfast of wholemeal bread, and milk; back again
to the harvest fields till noon, sweating and labouring
under a scorching sun; dinner of innumerable potatoes
and milk at twelve o'clock; and back again to work
till six, when the supper of bread and milk again was
ready. 'Twas severe. Nature claimed their labour
and their sweat; but she gave back generously. She
made her children giants. Now, you have a gorsoon
sitting above an iron cradle, and doing the work of
twenty men in a day. Science and machinery have
come between man and his mother. Nature; and she
has cast him off. Besides yourself, God bless you,
there are not ten men six feet high in the parish. And
look at these poor children, with their pale, pasty
faces, their rotting teeth, their poor weak brains.
But — the banks of the country are bursting with ac-
cumulated wealth, human labour is lessened and done
away with. Yet which was better — a population of
giants and no money; or a decaying population just
half in number, and with sixty millions locked up in
their Banks?"

"Terribly true!" said Myles. "It shows what I
did not suspect before, that our problems are more
than political."

"If we had a wise, sensible population," said the
priest, "we would have no political problems."

"You think the whole question is social, or concerned
with education?"

"Largely. But, don't mistake me, if ever you take
up the problem. And you will. I bought that ency-
clopaedia for you."

A STORY OF '67 237

"For me?" said Myles.

"Yes! And, what was harder to an old fogie like
me, I read it, and the Lord knows it was a penance for
your sake."

"How? I don't understand?" said Myles, looking
at the priest.

"This way," said Father James. "All the time you
were in Dartmoor, I said to myself, — this boy has
elements of greatness in him. He sees now, it is not
by the pike and the gun, but with the voice and the
pen that Ireland's salvation can be worked out. His
education has been faulty — "

" I have had none," said Myles.

"Well, it is imperfect. I'll make him read and I'll
make him think. No one else in Ireland does; and
therefore, he must become once more a leader of men."

"No one in Ireland reads?" said Myles.

" Not one. They couldn't? "

"But, my dear Father James, look at your colleges,
your universities, your high schools, your low schools;
and the thousands that pass through them."

"Yes, yes, yes, I know all. And I stick to what I
say. No one in Ireland reads, or thinks. You saw
the reason with your own eyes."

"Where?"

"Just now in that school. The brains of the nation
are gone. Up to a few years ago, education, like
field-work, was a slow, laborious, methodical process.
There were few subjects to digest, just as there were
only bread, and potatoes, and milk to eat; but these
subjects produced brainy men. As you heard me
say, those mathematical problems were before us,
day and night; and sometimes they occupied our
dreams. Now, you see, a simple cut in Euclid is im-

238 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

possible. The brains of those boys would snap asunder,
if they were forced to think. So with the nation. Its
mind is fed on newspapers and novelettes. These
cost no thinking. But, as the stomach of the nation
would reject potatoes and home-made bread today, so
the mind of the nation could not assimilate or digest
such a writer as our own Edmund Burke. And here
comes in the joke of the whole affair. The one subject
that demands the widest reading, the deepest and most
concentrated thought, is the one subject, around which
these ill-formed minds are always hovering."

"That is?" said Myles, who was wondering as much
at the novelty of the idea, as at the man who spoke
them.

"Political science!" said the priest. "The people
are decent enough not to pretend to know anything
about Art, or Science, or Literature. If you said
'Mendelssohn,' 'Guercino,' or 'Canova' in a drawing-
room today, even in Dublin Castle, you would be met
in solemn silence, and probably considered what is
called 'bad form.' But, everybody from the boot-
black to the Lord Lieutenant will talk politics; and
everybody in the country from the tramp to the
parish priest will talk politics, and with an air of as-
sured infallibility. But, here we are. When will you
send for that Encyclopsedia? "

"What Encyclopaedia?"

"The Encyclopcedia Britannica that I bought for
you!"

"But you are making such good use of it. Father
James. It would be a sin to take it from you."

"I am done with it," said the priest. "I'm leaving
Kilmorna."

"No?" said Myles, in consternation.

A STORY OF '67 239

"It is a fact. My twenty years' curacy has been
rewarded."

"But, are you going far?" said Myles, anxiously.
This was his father and dearest friend on earth.

"Not far. I shall be just four miles away. Father
Cassidy is promoted to a town-parish; and I am parish-
priest of Lisvarda."

"Thank God!" said Myles, fervently.

"There's another reason for my sending you this
book," said Father James. "You'll be lonely now."

"Y'es! that I will," said Mj'les, not understanding
his meaning.

"Agnes is leaving you!" said the priest, and Myles
was struck dumb.

"Another item of interest," said Father James.
"Do you remember Mrs. Kendall — Mary Carleton?"

Myles started now.

"She has become a parishioner of mine. She has
taken Hopkins' Villa, right over the Cleena river,
you know!"

Myles nodded. He was too full to speak. He shook
the priest's hand; and, as he turned away, the tears
were in his eyes.

XXXIV

The conversation set Myles a-thinking; and slowly,
slowly, he began to realise that the problems, which
he, with all the magnificent insolence of youth, had
set himself to solve easily, were world-problems, revolv-
ing in their own cycles, and which the mightiest minds
of every age and race had set themselves, often in vain,
to solve. The absurdity of raising or emancipating
a whole race by purely political methods broke on him
with sudden force; and he saw that it was only equalled
by the kindred absurdity of a people, with weakened
intellects, seeking to solve, with ever-increasing assur-
ance, the immense problems that lay before them.
And, as he read and read, he began to see what a
danger there was in conferring tremendous political
power on any people, whose education was not com-
mensurate with such responsibilities; and how the
ultimate destiny of his own people was only to be
worked out on the two lines of religion and intellec-
tual culture. This idea became intensified by a short
experience he had about this time.

The morning after he had heard the news of Agnes'
wish to enter religion at last, he opened the subject
at the breakfast table.

"So you are leaving me, Agnes?" he said, at last.

"Father James told you?" she said.

"Yes! of course, I knew 'twas coming."

"But, of course, you know, Mylie, that I shall not
leave you, if you want me."

A STORY OF '67 241

"You must not sacrifice yourself, for me," he
said.

"I suppose," she went on, "you'll be marrying soon,
and settling down; and perhaps, you know, things
may not be happy here — "

"No, Aggie," he said. "I shall never marry. But
you have already made sacrifices enough in delaying
your entry into religion for my sake. I have heard
from Father James a good many things. And to make
a long story short, when are you going to enter?"

"In about a month," she said. "And, Mylie, — "

"Yes, go on!"

"I'm not taking all my fortune with me. I told
Reverend Mother all; and she has accepted only two
hundred pounds."

"Father left you fifteen hundred," he said. "It is
safe in the Bank."

"I know," she replied. "Many a time I wished I
had it free to give you, Mylie, when you were in trouble.
But you'll have to take it now."

"We'll see," he replied. "But one little question,
Aggie!"

She waited.

"Did you really care for Halpin?"

The girl blushed deeply, but she answered:

"Yes! because he adored you, Mylie!"

"Nothing more?"

"No more."

"I think he cared more for you than that," he said.
"His last words were: 'Tell Agnes!' He repeated
that twice; and then his life closed for ever!"

"I know," she said. "He left me everything in his
will — his fiddle, his books, even his little dog Bran!
Father James brought the fiddle and books to me.

242 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Bran had died. He also wrote me a letter. I shall
have to destroy it now, as I am entering religion.
Would you like to see it?"

"No!" said Myles. "It is my friend's secret; and
you must keep it."

"Mylie!" said Agnes, after a pause.

"Yes!" he said.

"Do you know what I have been thinking?"

"I cannot guess," he said.

"Well, this. The Order I'm entering is, as you
know, enclosed — strict enclosure. I shall never come
outside the walls, never see a train, or a steamer, or a
city, like Dublin, again. I was thinking, if the expense
were not too great, that we two could take a little
run abroad — something to remember in after days!"

"The business, Aggie — the business," he replied.

"But this is the dull season. Not much can be done
before the harvest; and Mr. Cleary is such a confiden-
tial clerk!"

"'Twould give you pleasure?" he asked. Well he
knew that it was for his own sake she proposed it.

"Yes! great pleasure! And it can never come
again."

"Then it must be so," he said. "Of course. Father
James told you he was leaving us?"

"He did."

"Did he tell you anything else?"

"He told me that Mary Carleton is about to be his
parishioner."

"So it appears. Kendall left her well off; and she
has had the home-sickness."

"Mylie," said his sister, "are you glad or sorry?"

"Neither. Absolutely indifferent."

"Mary was not indifferent towards you!"

A STORY OF '67 243

■ "Indeed?"

"Yes. You don't know that it was she got you
arrested that awful time in '67."

"So Halpin told me."

"I went to her; and I said to her: You alone can
save him. She appeared surprised and pleased; and
then I knew her secret. Of course, I meant something
else, besides your arrest. I hoped she would come to
you, and plead with you to save yourself. She adopted
another way. She got Kendall to arrest you."

"'Twas effective enough, but for Fate," he said.
"But what did Kendall think?"

"He suspected all along that she had some leaning
towards you. But that singular request made his mind
easy. He was too stupid to understand that 'twas her
love for you prompted it."

" Love? That's a big word, Agnes — too big for
me to spell or understand. When shall we start for
the grand tour?"

"It must be at once," she said. "I must have at
least a week after we return, before I can enter."

"All right, then. Anything else?"

"There is. Do you know what I've been thinking,
Mylie?"

"Something good, I presume.'"

"It is, Myles!"

"Yes!"

"Father James has been good to us. You hardly
know all; and I could never find words to tell you all.
Suppose we ask him to come with us?"

"Agnes," he said, as the tears started to his eyes,
"you're an angel. Woman's wit against the world.
My stupid brain would never have thought of it."

"And, Mylie?"

244 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Something new again?"

"Of course, we shall bear all expenses. He has
nothing."

He stooped and kissed his sister, and went out.

He found his friend amidst a horrible litter of books,
and straw, and matting, and furniture, men flitting in
and out, with more or less heavy articles, towards the
immense van that stood in the street.

"I'm too dirty to shake hands with you," said the
priest, "/n exitu Israel de Egypto."

"I just dropped in for a moment," said Myles.
"When will you be settled down?"

"In about three or four days. These are awfully
clever fellows."

"Do you know what Agnes has got into her little
head?"

"No!" said Father James, looking alarmed.

"Nothing less than a grand tour on the Continent
before she enters. She says 'tis her last and only
chance to see Europe."

"And the child is right. Let her see the world which
she is leaving for ever."

"That's all right. Father James. But she can't go
alone, you know."

"Of course not. Who'd ever think of such a thing,
though young ladies can do wonderful things in our
days, of which their mothers would have never
dreamed?"

"To make it short, Father James, she wants you to
go with her."

"Me?" said Father James, dropping a big folio in
alarm. " Mavrone, wouldn't I be the nice spectacle,
piloting a young lady over Europe? Sure I'd never
hear the end of it."

A STORY OF '67 245

"Well, she'll be disappointed," said Myles. "Can't
you come?"

"Come? Come? and are you going too?" said the
priest.

"Why, of course. I may be entering Melleray one
of these days, too; and I don't see why I shouldn't
have my fling as well as you and Agnes."

"Well, begor, 'tis tempting," said Father James.
"I've got three Sundays off now, that is, four weeks,
since I got my stripes; and I suppose the Bishop
won't object."

"Not he. 'Tis all settled then. I'll see you at
Lisvarda, when we have all arrangements made. And,
Father James," said Myles, edging towards the door.

"Well. 'Tis all right now — but, look here, Mylie.
Who's to do the talking? Deuce a word of French I
know, but Parlez vous Frangaisf"

"We'll make that all right. Agnes isn't bad at
French. But I was just saying — "

"Well?"

"You needn't mind any ticket. Agnes has the three
in her pocket"; and he ran away.

He came back to Millbank for dinner; and told his
success to his sister, who beamed with delight. After
dinner, he had to go to his oflice. He stood for a
moment at the little iron gate to let a handsome
carriage pass by. It was a Victoria. The horse was
perfectly groomed; the driver in full green livery; and
leaning back in the cushions was Mary Carleton. He
gazed steadily at her for a moment, and she at him.
Somehow their relations had been so close, and their
histories so interwoven, although they had never
exchanged a word, that he felt some impulse to raise
his hat and seek an acknowledgment. But he re-

246 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

strained the impulse; and, after a glance, she flushed
slightly, and looked across the river.

"Not so much changed," he thought, "but for that
band of silver across her forehead."

"Not much changed," she thought, "but for that
grey beard and hair."

He had time to notice that her bo}^ a youth of
fifteen or sixteen, sat bolt upright in the carriage, and
was handsome; and that her daughter, a pretty blonde
child of about twelve, leaned back in the cushions,
imitating the graceful way of her mother.

XXXV

That was a memorable journey. The priest and his
two companions carried with them all the buoyancy
and freedom that come from getting away from the
dull, prosaic monotonous grinding of daily life into
new and unaccustomed scenes, in which, because they
formed no part in their own little theatre of life, they
could be interested without either hope or apprehension.
Father James had gone over the beaten track more
than twenty years before; and he was guide and
cicerone to his less experienced companions. He was
on the lookout for changes, and saw many which made
a certain novelty in the scenes for him. They came
fresh and inexperienced, with fancies wrought up to
a high pitch of wonderment and excitement at the new
world into which they plunged.

Ah! Those delightful summer mornings in some vast
city, when, after mass and breakfast, they sauntered
out to see the wonders of the streets and the temples
and the picture-galleries; the long days spent in these
latter, where wonder succeeded to wonder; and whilst
the experienced guide pointed out some famous picture
with the coolness born of experience, his companions
went into ecstasies which were only suppressed lest
they should attract notice; the journey ings in train
or steamboat along the banks of historic rivers, or under
the shadow of purple mountains, and the strange con-
secration of every spot to some historic event or legend;
the variety of languages heard all around them, and

248 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

which, because of their very mystery, were enchanting;
but, above all, these delicious summer twilights in
some German town, the sweetness and cleanliness that
were everywhere, the strange, national dresses, and,
above all, the politeness with which they were every-
where met — all these made an impression, which
hallowed all their future lives, and made memory a
magnificent storehouse whence pictures of scenic or
artistic beauty, and human dignity and kindness,
could be summoned at will to colour the drab monotone
of their daily lives.

It was curious to witness the different impressions
that were made on our travellers. Agnes, in her
youth, and her woman's sense of beauty and order, was
in a constant state of excitement over every new revela-
tion made by city, or mountain, or river. She carried
with her that wonderful atmosphere in which roseate
dawns are everywhere, and there is no twilight or night
or death, — but everything is steeped in one delightful
colour, and that colour symbolises youth and beauty
and immortality. Father James looked at everything
placidly as became his years, with some pleasure but
little enthusiasm, more anxious for the comfort of his
proteges than for his own amusement. It was wonder-
ful how the older man was able to smooth over the
difficulties of that trip; how he cajoled hotel-proprie-
tors, commanded servant-maids, bullied railway offi-
cials; and with what delicate solicitude he shielded
Agnes from every little accident that could mar the
pleasure of the journey. To their surprise, too, he talked
fluent French and German, although with an abominable
accent, to waiters and ticket-collectors, who stared at
him for his grotesque accent, but always understood
him perfectly; and he surprised them still more by

A STORY OF '67 249

his knowledge of every historical incident that was
connected with the landscapes through which they
passed, and even with the objects of art or curiosity
that were met everywhere in the delightful centres of
European civilization.

Strange to say, Myles alone half-marred the pleas-
ures of that delightful trip. In the beginning, the
novelty of everything charmed him, and he became a
furious reader. Baedeker was always in his hands;
and some works of literature that were recommended
to him as illustrative of the history and manners of
the countries through which they were passing. But,
as they advanced, and new worlds of wonder opened
up to his view, and he saw what education and civiliza-
tion had wrought; and how human life and its sur-
roundings were lifted up and on to a high plane of
refinement and culture; how literature and the arts
sweetened toil; and how, even in countries where the
drudgery of human labour seemed excessive, there
were always compensations in the way of public amuse-
ments or private opportunities for self-culture, his
heart sank within him, and he became moody and
silent and abstracted. He was thinking of the mother-
land; and how far she was in the rear of all modern
civilization. He could not grow enthusiastic over
scener5^ Were not his own Slieve Bloom and Galtees
as sublime as the "blue Alsatian mountains" about
which Agnes raved? Was not the lordly Shannon as
glorious as the Rhine; and had not the motherland
colours on her hills, mists and fogs on her plains, winds
in her forest trees, and, above all, her mystic and
mysterious Ocean for ever crawling and fawning about
her feet? No! He would not admit for a moment that
Nature had done less for Ireland than for the favoured

250 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

countries of Europe; but oh! when it came to human
effort and human genius, what a deplorable contrast!
The picture-galleries of Belgium and Holland set him
wondering and amazed. Those Cuyps and Memlings,
those Vandykes, that immortal Rubens. In his
delight he spoke half aloud —

"Such a plethora of wealth — such vast artistic
repositories, and oh! our poor country with its four
millions and a half of people, with its sixty millions
of money locked up in her banks; and only one poor
National Gallery, where there are but a few works
of native genius lighting up its halls!"

And the Universities, standing in every city in
Belgium, and raising to the level of intellectual capitals
even humble villages in Germany. And Ireland, with
but one, and that closed against the vast majority of
young Irishmen!

And those evenings in German towns, the beer-
gardens, the bands, the freedom, the perfect equality
without a trace of democratic insolence; those bands
of students sweeping by, singing in harmony the songs
of their country; those groups of German girls, gay
and laughing, yet without a trace of vulgar flirtation —
everything refined, everything decorous, everything
human and civilized! And Myles thought of home
and its decadence, the absence of all civilizing influences,
— art, music, literature, history; and, contrasting the
two, he groaned in spirit. But, above all, it was the
honour and reverence paid to the memories of great
men that weighed upon him; because he knew that
the life of one great man is a perpetual inspiration to
a nation. Those poets, whose songs had sunk into
the hearts of the people; those proud philosophers,
builders of schools and systems, with their hundreds of

A STORY OF '67 251

disciples and apostles; those great musicians, whose
works were known in every hamlet and village; those
classical scholars whose fame was recognized all over
Europe; and, above all, the humanities and civilising
and orderly influences that had flowed down from these
exalted sources and permeated and influenced all
human life, until there was a tenderness and a grace
even in the way a child placed a flower on your plate
in the morning — all this made him envious and
ashamed; and he thought, it will take two centuries of
progress to raise ^r country to the level of other
nations.

His querulous ways would have troubled two less
patient fellow-travellers; but at least they had the
one merit of drawing out the secret thoughts of his
good friend.

"There is no use in blaming England, my dear
Myles," he used to say, after listening to one of Myles*
declamations against the arch-enemy. "Many decent
Englishmen rage over their own backwardness. It is
quite true that their evil example — their money-
grubbing, their factory-building, their smoke and slime
and filth, from which by a chemical process peculiar to
themselves they extract the red gold — is killing art
and beauty, even so far as Italy. But we have our-
selves to blame. We have produced great men in
darker times than the present. There never were such
dismal and awful surroundings to a nation, as in '98
and '48. But as these Germans here brought forth
their mightiest men just at the time that Napoleon's
legions were stamping out all human liberty, so we
brought forth strong men in storms and darkness."

"A few," said Myles, "very few! Always poli-
ticians and orators. Nothing else!"

252 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"But, my dear fellow, there were, and are, politi-
cians in every clime and age. Dante was a furious
politician; and our Shanavests and Caravats were
tamed doves compared to the Bianchi and Neri of his
time. Yet he brought out his great poem in exile
and ignominy."

"But then, where is the cause of our barrenness?
If England is not to blame, who is to blame?"

"Why, ourselves, to be sure. Our fickle minds
cannot bear application of any sort. You saw that
in the case of these young boys — "

"Then are we the same race that made the Cross of
Cong and the Brooch of Tara?"

"We are; and we are not. The same subtlety, the
same artistic feeling is there; but it cannot be de-
veloped or directed."

"Why? Isn't that the imperfection of our educa-
tional methods; and don't these come from England?"

"Partly. But, remember, that all the mighty men
of Italy and Germany worked under patronage. State
or individual. Now, there's no such thing in Ireland.
Ireland never had a government or a wealthy patri-
cian, or a merchant Croesus, who cared one brass far-
thing about art, or science, or literature."

"You make me sad," said Myles, "to think that
genius has always had to work at the beck of patrons."

"So it has been. We can't go to Italy this time, and
I am glad of it; because, if you are so soured and
morose with what you have seen, we would have to
put a strait-jacket on you if you saw Italy. Yet,
there is hardly an artist there who did not work under
the eye of a Pope or a Prince. Artists, poets, philoso-
phers must have bread and butter, like other mortals;
and later on, stars and garters."

A STORY OF '67 253

"I shall go back to Ireland more saddened than
ever," said Myles. "All my ideals are smashed up
and pulverised."

"If you doubt me, look at it in this way. Suppose an
Englishman like Holman Hunt or Millais were to
bring a picture to Dublin on exhibition, what would
happen? All Dublin would run mad, and tumble over
each other to pay their sixpences to see the painting,
and to be able to show their taste by saying they saw it.
But, suppose some young lad from the stews and slums
of Dublin had produced a masterpiece and set it on
exhibition, what would happen? All Dublin would
turn up its nose at such an absurdity. A mere Irish-
man — an artist? Absurd. A great artist? Impos-
sible. But, suppose there was a great painting there,
executed by that boy, and no one could contradict the
evidence of experts, what would happen? The first
question would be: Is he a Catholic or a Protestant?
If he were a Catholic, all the Protestants would walk
down the other side of Grafton Street. A Papist to
produce a work of art? Impossible. If he were a
Protestant, the Catholics would not look even at the
handbills. He was an Orangeman; and that was
enough. When they had decided that question and
taken up party-sides, the next question would be — his
politics. Is he a Nationalist, or a Unionist? Is he a
and the sixpences would be fewer at every dis-
covery, until at last his patrons would be — those of
artistic tastes, who belong to a certain sect, and who
hold certain political views, and, within these views,
belong to a certain party."

" We appear to have a poor opinion of ourselves," said
Myles. "We are for ever hearing why haven't we a
Burns, or a Shakespeare, or a Maeterlinck, or an Ibsen."

254 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Precisely. 'Tis just that constant depreciation of
everything Irish that drives so many of our best men
to England or America. See here in this Germany.
They have Uhland and Riickert and Korner and
Arndt, not to speak of, higher names; and these men are
held in high honour. Their poems are in the class-
books of their schools; their effigies are everywhere,
just as the statues of Burns are numerous in Scotland.
Yet I doubt if any of these, or the whole of them put
together, could rival the beauties of the ' Irish Melodies';
and, as you know, many Irishmen never heard of three-
fourths of them."

"Heigho-ho!" said Myles. "'Tis a poor case; but
what is it all? What is it all? "

"Political unrest, destructive of every attempt at
civilising the people; and, added to that, the most
absurd systems of education in the world!"

XXXVI

They had held some such conversation as this at
the dinner table of a monster hotel at Heidelberg one
evening, taking it for granted that this English lan-
guage of theirs was quite unintelligible to the other
visitors. They spoke in low tones; yet in such a
manner that their words reached across the table, and
were heard, understood, and noted by at least one of
the visitors.

After dinner, in the twilight of this early summer
evening. Father James and Myles sat out on the terrace
overlooking the broad stream of the Neckar, that
flowed beneath the famous mediaeval castle. Agnes
sat apart in a little alcove. She had a book on her lap;
but she was not reading. She was thinking — that
Myles was far and away the handsomest man at that
table, an opinion apparently shared by many eyes
that turned instinctively towards him; thinking, too,
how fashionable he was with his white hair standing
erect, ever since the convict clipping of ten years had
refused to allow it to lie down again; thinking how his
white beard, clipped and pointed under his chin was
quite d la mode; thinking how the young girl who sat
a little downwards at the opposite side of the table had
managed to brush back that glossy mass from her fore-
head, as if she were only a school-girl, and yet succeeded
in looking distinguished; thinking that life was a
pleasant thing, and that it will be hard to give it up, as

256 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

she has determined to do, in a few weeks' time — a
temptation which she promptly rejected.

A gentleman, in evening dress, with uncovered head,
and yet with a fur pelisse over his shoulders, came out
on the terrace, smoked for a few moments looking down
the river, glanced at Agnes, as if he could not make up
his mind whether he should address her; and finally
came over to where the priest and Myles were sitting;
and bowing to them, he said:

"I do not know, gentlemen, whether you wished
your conversation at dinner to be considered of a pri-
vate nature; yet it would have been impertinent on
my part to have said I understood English well; still
more impertinent if I had said how deeply I was
interested in your conversation."

He spoke with the faintest intonation of a foreign
accent.

Father James at once moved aside, and pointed to the
vacant seat between himself and Myles.

"Very many thanks," said the stranger, "may I
keep this cigar?"

"Undoubtedly. My friend here likes a pipe, as you
see. I never learned the art; but I can admire it."

"Ha!" said the stranger, settling down comfort-
ably. " I think it was Art you were speaking of? "

"Yes!" said Father James, "or rather the absence
of art in our country — (we are Irish) ; because there
is no help, no patronage; and artists, as a rule, must
have bread to eat, and water to drink."

"Quite so! But, do you perceive, that the malady
of unproductiveness, I think you said, barrenness,
which afflicts your country, is a world-malady?"

"No!" said Myles, joining in, "that is a consola-
tion."

A STORY OF '67 257

"That the Arts should have perished?" said the
stranger, smiling and looking curiously at Myles.

"No, no! But that my poor country does not stand
alone in her poverty!"

"Ha! A patriot, I perceive. May I go further?
The Arts are dead. Patriotism is also dead in every
country in Europe, both killed by the same cause!"

How true it was of Ireland Myles knew, and he
could not object.

"What then is the cause?" he said, "of such uni-
versal decadence? It must be something more than
want of patronage?"

"You see that river?" said the stranger.

"Yes! It is very beautiful just now in the twilight,
with the shadow of medievalism hanging over it."

"It was more beautiful eighty years ago," was the
reply, "and in this month also, when a barge, decorated
with flowers from stem to stern, sailed down along that
stream. There were students from the University,
professors, fair ladies, distinguished men, such as the
Crown Prince of Sweden, and Prince von Waldeck on
board. There was a table on deck, loaded with costly
wines and viands, and a profusion of plants and flowers.
The barge was followed by a multitude of boats,
crammed with students, and citizens; and there was
music, and light and splendour everywhere. And, what
think you was all that pageant for? Well, I'll tell you.
That day, a certain poet, son of a village schoolmaster,
had received his Diploma as Doctor of Philosophy,
honoris Causa, at this University; and the fete was
organised in his honour. Would that be possible in
your country?"

The priest and Myles looked at each other, and
smiled.

258 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"I see," said the stranger. "You deem it impossi-
ble. And it would be impossible now even here."

"Why?" said Myles, eagerly. He was pleased to
find that his country's indifference was shared by more
favoured nations.

"Because we have no Jean Paul now; and, because
if we had, no such honour could be paid him."

"But, why, why, why?" said Myles, eagerly. He
wanted to get at the root of things.

"Why? Ah, my friend, you are impatient. Good.
It is well to be impatient. I will tell you why. Be-
cause, the reign of democracy set in with the French
Revolution; and its elephantine hoofs have been
trampling out all the beauty and sweetness of life
since then."

Father James and Myles were silent. The latter was
almost resentful. Why, is it not certain that the
march of progress and the march of democracy are
identical?

The stranger went on:

"I am an aristocrat. I own lands down there in
Thuringia. But I am not wedded to my class. I
perceive its shortcomings. I should not shed tears over
its abolition; but. Heavens! what is to follow? All
the graces, all the sweetness, all the serenities of life,
which make the world fairly tolerable, but only toler-
able, wiped out; and all the intolerable vulgarities of
life, which make it a hideous spectacle, brought in.
Because, whatever else may happen, one thing is
certain — that great things will never spring from a
people who have succeeded in levelling down all things
to a common plane, and, in doing so, have killed the
symbols that represented the power and the greatness
of humanity."

A STORY OF '67 259

"One of our poets," said Myles, glad to be able to
show that Ireland had such children, "almost used
your words:

"At the voice of the pex)ple, the weak symbols fall,
And Humanity marches o^er purple and pall;
O'er sceptre and croum with a noble disdain,
For the symbols must fall, and Humanity reign."

"Ha! Repeat these words, my friend," said the
stranger. "They seem to sing."

Myles repeated the words from " The Year of Revolu-
tions"; and then added:

"I should have said it was a lady that wrote them.
It was in '48, — the year of Revolutions."

"I should remember it," said the stranger, in an
abstracted manner. "I was in prison that year."

"Then you are brethren in misfortune," said Father
James, breaking in. "My friend spent ten years in
an English dungeon for a political offence."

The man started violently. Then, under a sudden
impulse, he turned around and, drawing down Myles'
head, he kissed his forehead.

"Mon Dieu!" he said, "but you do not bear the
marks. I do."

"Time has worn them away," said Father James.
"But you can see why he loves his people."

"And so do I," said the other, fiercely. "But what
say you? 'The symbols must fall; and Humanity
reign.' Is that good for Humanity? Because, after
all, Humanity is a beggarly thing at best. I would
not give my dachshound, Rollo, nor my horse, Rustum,
for the whole of humanity put together — but for one
thing, its symbols; and these are going."

"We are a httle backward, my friend and I," said

260 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Father James. " These be unintelligible things. With
us, it is our reUgion that redeems Humanity, and
nothing else."

"Precisely. We are one. But do you not perceive
that all religion is symbolic of the Divine? Have you
never heard of Mohler's Symbolikf"

"Oh, yes! Hundreds of times. 'Tis one of those
books which everybody talks about and nobody reads.
But I don't understand."

"Our Goethe says that the whole Universe is but a
symbol, or garment, of God; Life but a symbol of
Eternity; Virtue, a symbol of eternal blessedness.
And so the sceptre and the crozier and the mitre; the
pencil of the artist, the chisel of the sculptor, the wand
of the conductor, are symbols — of what? Of what-
ever is gracious, and sweet, and beautiful in life; and
now they must be all swept away in the muddy torrent
of Democracy."

"Ah, yes!" said Myles, "but will not Democracy
create its own symbols, pregnant too, of meanings?"

"It has had a century to prove itself," said the
stranger, "and what has it done? No, no! Democ-
racy is a barren thing, at best."

"The grass grows stronger and sweeter when tram-
pled," said Myles, drifting into the metaphorical
language of the stranger. "The symbols democracy
tramples under its hoofs today will surely grow more
powerful and gracious tomorrow."

"Symbols are not grass, but jflowers," said the
Thuringian. "Do flowers revive, when crushed under
heel? Take away the symbols — the crown, the
coronet, the mitre, the sceptre, from your Shakespeare,
and what have you left? Take your princesses, and
knights, and kings from your Tennyson, and what

A STORY OF '67 261

have you left? Take your angels and archangels from
Milton, and what have you left? Take your chief-
tains and poets and bards from your Scott or
Ossian, and what have you left? Is Walt Whitman,
the rather salacious singer of democracy, equal to
Shakespeare?"

"But you said patriotism was dead," said Myles,
eager to get back on surer ground.

"Quite so, and from the same cause. For what is
patriotism? 'Tis a dream, but a divine dream, 'Tis
a symbol, — nay, even we reduce our fatherland to a
symbol, like the cock of France, the bull of England.
How do you represent your fatherland?"

'"Tis our motherland," said Myles. "A woman
beneath a round tower and ruined abbey, a harp by
her side; a wolf-dog at her knee; all looking towards
a sunrise or a sunset, above an illimitable ocean."

"Which shall it be?" said the stranger, deeply
interested. "The symbol is beautiful."

"Ah! Which?" said Myles. "There is the ques-
tion that is torturing us. It is easy to determine, if,
as you say, the spread of democracy has killed the
spirit of patriotism. That means a sunset and
night, and eternal night, without hope of a dawn
for us."

"Well, what is to be, will be," said the Thuringian.
"Democracy has but one logical end — Sociahsm.
Socialism is cosmopolitanism — no distinction of na-
tionaUties any longer; but one common race. That
means anti-mihtarism, the abohtion of all stimulus
and rivalry. And who is going to work or fight, my
friends, for that abstraction, called Humanity? Not I!
But, thank God, we have the Past to hve in. They
cannot take that from us!"

262 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

He rose up, threw his cigar away, and said :
" Good-night ! You have yielded me a pleasant hour."
He bowed, and went back to the Hotel.
" I think we may turn our footsteps towards Ireland
now," said Father James.

XXXVII

For many a long day afterwards, the words of the
stranger rang in the ears of Myles Cogan:

Democracy and the Symbols.

Patriotism dead.

They cannot filch the past from us.

Just then, however, he was occupied with another
idea, which accompanied these, but took precedence —
namely, the revelation of his own backwardness in the
matter of education; and the conviction that it was
only religion and education could save the country.
He thought he would probe deeper into the problem,
and see how the young men of the country felt.

He had persistently refused to enter pubUc life,
or even to associate himself with any society, except
those that were purely religious. Now, he would make
an experiment.

Kilmorna was a small town of about two thousand
people. There were two banks, a number of good shops,
two churches, and half a dozen private houses, occu-
pied by the doctor, an attorney, a Clerk of the Union,
an excise officer, and one or two gentlemen con-
nected with the place, who had made money, but whom
the heimweh drew hither to spend their last days where
they were born. A large hotel dominated the Main
Street; and a few minor streets with shabby shops
stretched irregularly from it. In one of those back
streets there was a rude building, formerly a store,

264 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

where thirty years before Myles drilled and harangued
his soldiers. It was now turned into a Young Men's
Society Hall, as the flaring letters over the door
denoted.

One evening some weeks after his return from the
Continent, and just as the October fogs were rising
from the river, he asked his clerk to take him through
the rooms of the Society. Mr. Cleary was Vice-
President. Nothing loth, and anxious to secure his
services in so good a cause, Mr. Cleary took him up
the side street and into the rooms. It was eight
o'clock. They passed through the reading-room. It
was a spacious and well-hghted apartment. There
was a long table running up the centre, upon which
newspapers without number, and in a disordered state,
were flung. Some dated back a week; some were in
leaves scattered here and there. There was a large
bookcase pretty well filled, and the books were pro-
tected from being handled by a wire netting. Myles
glanced through their titles. The novels were worn to
tatters; the books of adventure were in fair condition;
the books of science were spotless.

"We have a splendid billiard-table in the next room,"
said Mr. Cleary. '"Tis our Bank, our Exchequer.
Without it, we should have to close up."

It was a fine room. The table did look bright and
clean in its new green cloth. The gas lights shone
brilliantly. Some twenty or twenty-five young fellows
were seated around, smoking in silence, and watching
the game with the deepest interest.

The two men lingered a few moments, and then
turned away.

"Then the bilUard-table is the centre of the life
and existence of your Society?" said Myles.

A STORY OF '67 265

"Yes!" said his clerk, "of course we have an occa-
sional concert, which brings us in a few pounds. We
are having one on Wednesday evening. It will be
very good. Some good singers are coming from
Dublin."

"Yes!" said Myles, full of his own thoughts, "but
the intellectual progress of the Society — what of
that?"

"We don't think of it," said Mr. Cleary. "Some
time ago, one of the priests made an attempt at lectur-
ing, but it failed. All that we can aim at now is to
keep our young men off the streets, and away from the
pubUc-house."

"No one reads?" said Myles.

"No one. One or two old fogies or bookworms used
come here at first; but they soon exhausted all our
books, and they come no more."

"I see Manzoni's great novel neglected. Do any of
the young men read History — even Irish History —
say Mitchell's, or A. M. SuUivan's 'New Ireland,' or
the 'Jail Journal'?"

" Oh dear, no ! The history of Ireland which interests
us is what is going on about us now. We have done
with the past. It is a Uttle gloomy, you admit!"

"I see. And the concert — Wednesday, you said?
I shall come!"

Myles went home. The words of the Thuringian:
"They cannot filch from us the Past!" and the words of
the Vice-President of the Kilmorna Young Men's
Society: "We have done with the Past!" were ringing,
not too melodiously, in his ears.

"What a national apostasy has taken place," he
thought. "Who could have beUeved it? And was
it for this, Halpin, you shed your blood?"

266 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

He was brought back to everyday existence the
following morning. There was a letter on his desk to
the effect that certain bills were overdue; and that one
of his creditors, partner in a certain large milling firm,
would call that afternoon for explanations. There were
few to make. Business had been going down steadily,
owing to increased competition, new methods, poUtical
rivalries, etc. Myles opened his books, took his visitor
into a private room, and left him there. After an hour,
the creditor asked Myles to come in. He said:

"You see, Mr. Cogan, our people don't want to
press you. Your father and you have been our cus-
tomers for over forty years. Our business dealings
have been cordial. But, the times are hard. We can-
not afford to lose money; and your business is going
down."

"I admit all that you say," said Myles. "It is not
my fault. I am here from morning till night. I avoid
all public affairs; I eschew poUtics; I am not on any
Board."

"True; but you'll excuse the expression — you are
not up-to-date."

"How? I do not understand?" said Myles.

"Your business methods are antiquated. They
might have done very well in the past. But we have
done with the past."

"So I have been learning lately," said Myles, "no
later than last night."

"Now, I have been looking over your books," said
his visitor, "and what do I find? Here is Mrs. Annes-
ley's account; and here is Major Harty's; and here is
Colonel Smith's. These, I presume, are the resident
gentry?"

"Yes! They never deserted me," said Myles.

A STORY OF '67 267

"Whatever custom I lost during my — well, absence,
it was the custom of our own people, the farmers and
the townspeople."

"Very good. That is well. But don't you perceive
the mistake you are making? Here is the account of
Patrick Flaherty — a farmer, I presume?"

"Yes! A small farmer."

"And you charge him, a small farmer, exactly the
same as you charge Colonel Smith, and the others.
Now, you ought surely to know that the great rule in
transacting modern business is to charge according
to your customers."

"I don't understand," said Myles, looking aghast
at the suggestion. "I make my margin of profit on
the wholesale prices, and charge all my customers alike."

"Phew!" said his visitor. "That would never do.
That's not up-to-date business. If that were done in
our cities, half the shops would be closed in twelve
months."

"I cannot understand," said Myles. "Surely, you
don't mean that I must have different prices for every
man that comes into my shop?"

"That is just what I mean!" said the other. "A
tobacconist buys a box of cigarettes for four shillings.
A seedy student comes in. He wants a whole box.
He is asked to pay six shillings. He heckles and
bargains, and finally gets it for five. An order comes
from an hotel for the same. They are charged seven
and sixpence. A swell drives up in a motor. He gets
the same box for ten shiUings, with the assurance that
they are cutting down the price to obUge him. That's
business. That's up-to-date. The same holds in
all other kinds of goods. The same in the professions.
Charge according to your customers. That's the rule

268 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

of the trade, of every trade. And when you are dealing
with a fool, add on."

Myles was thunderstruck.

"It seems to me immoral," he said.

"Perhaps so," said the other, in the most debonair
manner; "perhaps so. But morals is one thing; and
business is another; and don't you forget it. Now,
here's another matter. I perceive you never give
discount to your customers!"

"Never! I cannot see why I should, when they
have goods at reasonable prices."

"Your neighbour over the way, Simpson, does so."

"So I have heard. I cannot understand how it pays
him."

"'Tis very simple. He puts on twopence on every
shilling; and gives back a penny discount."

"And the people tolerate that?"

"Certainly. The ordinary customer never thinks
of what he is paying, only of what he is getting. And
look here, Mr. Cogan! I see there are nearly a thou-
sand pounds out from you. Can't you get it in?"

"I have tried," said Myles. "I have sent out ac-
counts again and again; and the result is, that my
customers leave me. They are insulted, and go
elsewhere."

"But remain on your books?"

"Yes! You see that old decency — that old spirit
of pride, that used make our people blush to owe six-
pence, has vanished. I meet those people on the street,
or going to Mass, and they salute me as blandly as if
they had never owed me sixpence."

"Then, why not summon and decree them?"

"The decree might serve to light my pipe," said
Myles, bitterly. "What else could I do with it? If

A STORY OF '67 269

I dared distrain, or take their cattle, the whole country
would be up against me. You see they are quite
up-to-date."

The creditor began to bite his pen-handle. He was
in deep cogitation. He turned around suddenly.

"Do you ever give a glass of whiskey to a good
customer, or a servant-boy?"

"Never!" said Myles. "Vm a teetotaller myself;
but I would not grudge a drink to a friend; yet that
promiscuous treating of servants would be impossible."

"You don't give them a Christmas Box even?"

"No! Since — since my boyhood, I have a par-
ticular horror of bribery in any form."

"Mr. Cogan?" said the creditor, after a long pause,
during which he had chewed away the top of the
pen-handle.

" Yes? " said Myles.

"I can only come to one conclusion. I must report
to my partner that you are wholly out of date; and
that you must, sooner or later, if you adhere to those
principles, close up and retire. Yet, we won't press
you. What I suggest is this — that you effect a com-
position; and leave it to us to realize your assets and
debts. This cannot be done without a little expense;
but no one minds that nowadays."

"But I mind it," said Myles, in a sudden temper.
"It is a dishonourable thing, and means dishonour
to our name. Now, wait one moment please!"

He left the room, and went straight to his office.
Here he opened his safe, took out his cash-box, and
from this, a deposit receipt on a local bank.

Returning, he endorsed the receipt, and placed it in
his creditor's hands.

"My bills are three hundred," he said in a level

270 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

tone, but his eyes spoke of suppressed passion. " Here
is a receipt for twelve hundred. You have doubted
my honourable intentions towards your firm, although
you have had forty years' experience of us. This money
is legally mine, altho', for certain reasons, I did not wish
to touch it. You can keep it as security that you shall
not suffer by me."

"Oh! really, Mr. Cogan," said the man of business,
after casting a careful eye over the receipt, "you quite
misunderstood me. We never had the slightest doubt
of your honour or solvency. Only for your own sake,
we would wish that you would conform more to modern
methods of business. I couldn't think of taking such
a sum in mortgage. I shall explain all to my partner,
I will, indeed!"

He was taking up his hat, after donning his overcoat,
when he said, as an afterthought:

"By the way, my partner made a suggestion, which
may meet all our views. You won't be offended?"

"Not at all!" said Myles. "Go ahead!"

"Well, he thought that if — if you considered it
advisable — the matter lies altogether in your own
hands, you know — it would help you very much, and,
perhaps, develop your business, if you were to take
Mr. Cleary into partnership."

"My clerk?" said Myles, whilst his face darkened
with sudden suspicion.

"Yes! He is an efficient man; and has capital."

Myles' face grew darker, but ho said :

"Mr. Cleary has suggested this?"

"No, no, no!" said the man, anxiously. "It came
altogether from my partner."

"I shall think of it," said Myles. "Good-day!"

XXXVIII

On Wednesday, Mr. Cleary had tea with Myles at
Millbank, and, after tea, they strolled quietly across
the bridge towards the town hall, where the concert
was to he held. The evening was very beautiful; and
just half-way across the bridge, Myles paused, and
seemed to be watching the waters that swirled beneath.
Suddenly he turned and said to his clerk:

"Had you any conversation with FrankHn the day
he was here?"

"None whatever," was the reply, "except to bid him
good-day!"

"He made me a sudden proposal," said Myles. "He
lectured me first on business methods, and new ways of
doing business, which I considered dishonest and
immoral, which he said were practised universally. He
then proposed a composition. I showed him that I
could easily pay him four times the amount of our
overdue bills. He then proposed that I should take
you as a partner."

The old clerk flushed up beneath his white beard.

"And what did you say. Sir?" he repUed.

"I said I'd think of it," said Myles. "Now, give
me your opinion!"

"If the offer came from you, Sir," he said, "I would
esteem it a great honour and gladly accept it. It would
look badly now, as coming from them."

"Why?"

272 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Because it would appear that they distrusted you
and your business methods."

"Well, so they do. The question is, can you do
better?"

"I cannot take a deeper interest in the business
than I have taken for over thirty-five years," was
the reply.

"I know it," said Myles. "And everyone knows it.
The question is, can you introduce new business
methods, that shall not be absolutely immoral, so as to
make the place more successful than it has been?"

"Well, of course, you see, Sir," said the clerk, "you
have very big ideas, that don't suit our times. Every-
one is surprised that you are not in the bankruptcy
court long ago. There are not fifty men in Ireland
doing business on your lines to-day."

"Then, you refuse the partnership?" said Myles.

"No, if you offer it by your own free will, and give
me a free hand."

"A free hand? I don't know what it means," said
Myles. "I believe you to be an honourable man and
a conscientious man — you go to Holy Communion
once a month?"

"Yes, as a member of the Confraternity!"

Myles paused a moment.

"It appears," he said at length, "that my short-
comings are reducible to three heads — I don't charge
according to my customers; I don't give false discount,
and steal it from my customers in another way; I
don't give drink or bribes, even in the shape of Christ-
mas Boxes. Now, if I give you a free hand, do you
mean to do these things?"

"They are the recognised practices of our trade,"
said the clerk. "They are not essential."

A STORY OF '67 273

"That is, you can conduct our business without
them?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And make it pay?"

"Yes!"

"Now, understand me, Mr. Cleary," said Myles.
"I am an oldish man. I shall not marry. I don't
care for money; and if I had money, I have no one to
whom I would care to leave it. My household expenses
do not reach a hundred a year. Can you make such
profits on the business as to secure that for me?"

"If you mean to make me your partner on such
terms, I cannot accept it," said the clerk. "The mill
and shop can be made to yield a greater profit."

"Well, I'm content."

"But I am not. You want to reverse our positions;
make me owner, and you, my paid clerk; and put up
'Cleary' for 'Cogan.' No, no, that would never do.
I shall do all in my power to meet your wishes, as you
wish to pay me this honour; but the name 'Cogan'
must not be taken down."

Myles pressed the man's hand; and they crossed
the bridge, and entered the town together.

"There is one good omen," said the clerk, as they
passed into the Town Hall. "Mrs. Kendall has opened
her account with us; and it is to be ours exclusively."

"Ha!" said Myles.

The concert was much the same as is held during
the winter months in every village in Ireland. The
audience was mixed. Near the door, the "boys"
congregated in large numbers, quite ready to applaud
or lend a voice at a chorus. Further up, were seated
small shopkeepers, servants, people from the country,
and a few from neighbouring villages. Nearer to the

274 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

platform, the gentlemen sported flowers in buttonholes,
and the ladies' heads were uncovered. In the front
row were the elite of the village. Two gentlemen were
in evening dress; and their ladies were decolletees.
Myles and his partner sat rather far back in the hall.
One of the organisers requested them to come on to the
reserved seats; but they declined.

The programme was the usual one — a chorus by the
Convent-school children, a comic song, a duet: "Home
to our Mountains"; a four-hand reel, a solo — "Way
down Bermondsey"; a recitation, etc. The audience
was attentive, but not enthusiastic. There were no
encores.

In the second part, after a ten minutes' interval, the
audience seemed to wake up. They bore with exem-
plary patience the opening chorus, "There's moonlight
on the wave," seemed to chafe a httle when a fine
young Irish fellow sang an Irish song: "Maureen";
and then settled themselves comfortably in their seats
for the event of the evening: A comic song by Mr.
Grant, Dublin.

"This will be very good, I beUeve!" whispered Cleary
to Myles. It was.

A young gentleman in evening dress came forward,
made a bow, was received with enthusiastic applause,
and commenced to sing with a pronounced English
accent:

Yip-i-addy-i-aye.
After the first chorus, he invited the ladies alone to
accompany him in repeating the chorus; then the
gentlemen only; then all together. It was clearly
familiar to them, because they took up the words with
great energy, and from . the decolletee in the reserved
seats down to the virago of the lanes; and from the

A STORY OF '67 275

professional man in spotless front down to the news-boy,
who brought his paper in the morning, all responded:

Yip-i-addy-i-aye.
Then all burst into a simultaneous fit of laughter.

When the noise of the chorus and the laughing had
subsided, the applause was thunderous, the encores
imperious. The popular hero came out again, bowed
low, and retired. It was a Httle disappointing; but
it was soon explained that he was a professional artist,
who had only stipulated with the committee for one
song. He was not a common fellow who thirsted for
encores.

"Is there much more of this kind of thing?" said
Myles.

"Only one other comic song," said his partner;
"there's a grand chorus, too. That's what the people
like. They can join in."

So there was. It was about a shipwrecked mariner,
presumably an Irishman who fell into the hands of
cannibals on some Polynesian island, and was saved
by a young lady savage, daughter of a chieftain, who
wished to marry him, in order to have the feast alto-
gether to herself. The chorus was supposed to be in
the usual vernacular of the natives. It was taken up
by the entire audience, who also stamped their feet,
as if dancing an accompaniment.

Myles Cogan looked around. It was a well-dressed,
well-conducted, orderly audience, brimming over with
merriment and fun, and bent on carrying out the old
Roman principle of enjoying the day, whilst they had
it. But there was not an indication that they were
Irish, except a broad accent here and there betrayed it.
Instead of the old sweet songs, so full of tenderness
and sorrow for lost causes; or the later war songs and

276 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

love songs that were laid lovingly at the feet of "dark
Rosaleen" by her worshippers, you had the empty
and vulgar nonsense of a London music-hall; no
blending of the "smile and tear of Erin," but the loud
laughter and the vacant mind.

It plunged Myles into a melancholy mood, whilst
to everyone else it seemed but a happy indication of
what "New Ireland" was to be. To them it was a
"good-bye!" to the past with all its gloom and melan-
choly, and a cheerful bright outlook on a golden future.
They were a happy, gay, rollicking crowd, bent on
amusement, and determined to make the most of Ufe.
To Myles it was an apostasy — an open abandonment
of all that had hitherto been cherished as the tradi-
tional glories of the race. Once or twice the thought
flashed upon him that possibly he might be wrong in
allowing himself to be haunted by the gloom and glory
of the past, instead of joining the Corybantes with
their Cymbals, and dancing down the long avenue of
gaiety which the prophets were opening up before the
eyes of a disenchanted race. For the dreams of
Nationality had now disappeared. As the Thuringian
said: Patriotism was dead. Then again the words
which Father James had once in the kindhest spirit
addressed to him:

"Myles Cogan, you are in imminent danger of be-
coming a prig, a pendant, or a pessimist," came back
to him, and threw him, there in that crowded hall,
into a long reverie of painful introspection. But,
habit was too strong. He shook the traitorous thought
aside. It was the old National ideals that were right,
— the unselfish love, the spirit of sacrifice, the melan-
choly tinged with hope! The nation had apostatised;
but his thoughts should ever hover above the mount

A STORY OF '67 277

of his country's Calvary. The final chorus was "Auld
Lang Syne" in Irish, of which not one understood a
word.

Then the Chairman spoke, and thanked the perform-
ers, particularly the professional artists from Dubhn,
for that delightful and intellectual entertainment;
and thanked the audience for their enthusiastic appre-
ciation of the efforts of the local Committee to bring a
little sweetness and Ught into the dull, dreary round
of an Irish village. There were great hopes that the
country, moving ahead in so many matters, was also
progressing intellectually; and if there were need of
a proof of this, he could only point to the acute and
inteUigent manner in which that large and distinguished
audience, quite up-to-date in other matters, were also
up-to-date in their appreciation of classical music.
The Committee hoped to repeat these entertainments
from time to time, and thus contribute to the intel-
lectual advancement, as well as to the relaxation and
amusement of their historic town.

Then the audience dispersed, many saying it was
the greatest treat they had ever had in Kilmorna.

"I hope you are pleased that you came," said Mr.
Cleary, when they were free from the crowd.

"Very much, indeed. It was a revelation."

"You see. Sir, just Hke our business methods, of
which we were speaking a while ago, the country is
moving ahead. Everything now must be up-to-date."

"Of course," said Myles.

"I believe it was suggested by some of our Commit-
tee to introduce some National songs, such as the
'Melodies,' or the '48 songs; but they decided it
would not do."

"Why?" said Myles.

27S THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Well, you see they are old-fashioned, and the people
want something new. Then they are melancholy;
and what the people want is something amusing — the
race, the ball, the dance, the comic song. And then I
am told the children will not learn them."

"Why?" said Myles.

"They're difficult; and, you see, there is not a single
rollicking air, which the people could take up. You
see, everything is changed; and we cannot go back."

"I suppose not," said Myles. "Yes, we cannot go
back. Good-night, Mr. Cleary. I shall see about
that deed of partnership as soon as possible."

XXXIX

Clearly then Myles Cogan was out of touch with his
generation. He saw the utter futiUty of attempting
to raise such a people to any high level of thought or
action. All dignity seemed to have passed out of Hfe;
class distinctions were being levelled; reserve and
reticence, the hall marks of noble spirits, were no more.
It was a singular revolution; and its very suddenness
made it more singular. Myles began to puzzle himself
about its remote and proximate causes. Then the
words of the Thuringian came back: "The elephantine
hoofs of democracy."

He was now thrown back upon himself; and this
became so much the easier, as now he could leave his
quondam clerk and present partner the greater part of
the burden of business. He had been steadily reading a
complete course of the world's literature for some time.
He threw himself into the work of self-culture more
assiduously than ever. The cheap reproduction of the
great works of every age and clime enabled him to put
together a fairly respectable Ubrary; and, it was an
intense enjoyment to him, during the long winter's
evenings, or during the summer twilights, to take up,
and dwell upon the large and comprehensive manner
in which great intellects have always treated the
supreme problems of human life. How narrow and
parochial now seemed the petty party-politics of Irish
life! How the problems that were agonising the nation

280 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

seemed dwarfed into insignificance when compared
with the great political upheavals that make European
history; and how even these sank into nothingness
before the tremendous revelation that it was all, all
but the trouble of ants in the Hght of a million, milUon
suns!

From time to time, he was stung with remorse at
the thought that his Ufe was passing uselessly by;
and that he would probably sink into his grave, without
having done a single thing for his country. But, he
asked himself, what could he do? He was debarred
from taking any part in the intellectual advancement
of Ireland. It was in the hands of officials, who were
tied to systems that were already condemned by their
want of ordinary success; and there was the fatal
apathy of the people themselves. And as to political
Ufe, oh, no! That was not to be thought of. To go
down and enter that arena was impossible.

"One thing I thank God for," he said one evening,
sitting on the long green garden seat outside Father
James' house at Lisvarda, and looking down on the
valley where Kilmorna nestled a few miles away,
"that I have kept my hand out of the wasps' nest of
pofitics."

"Look here, Myles!" said Father James, "this won't
do! You are suffering from a kind of intellectual fever.
There is a fine kind of deUrium which comes from books,
just as surely as from opium. They make you 'dream
dreams, and see visions,' but these are no more real
than the ravings of a drunkard."

"How? I can't see!" said Myles.

"Nothing simpler. Men, whose fives were fived on
low levels can yet write subfime things. These few

A STORY OF '67 281

are generally partially insane. The average man in
the street is wholly sane. He sees things as they areJ^

"Precisely. But things as they are, are very bad.
Are we to sit down, and contemplate them with com-
placency?"

"No! But, que voulez-vous? The man of letters is
a useless dreamer; the man of action is generally
immoral. The combination of the two results in a fool
and a failure."

"Then I shall keep to my dreams!" said Myles.

" Do. I'm afraid that old scoundrel of a gamekeeper,
who wouldn't let me have a run of a hare, has demor-
aUsed you."

"His company is more wholesome than that of the
Shanavests and Caravats down there," said Myles.
"Anything, anything, but the degradation of pohtics."

"So you have made Cleary a partner?" said Father
James, changing the subject.

"Yes! I was going downhill. The people were not
paying their debts. Rich customers ran up bills of
forty or fifty pounds, paid ten pounds on account, and
then ran up to sixty. The poor were more decent; but
the fact is there is no such thing as regular payments
now; and, as you know, we have but three months'
credit."

"Franklin came down on you?"

"Yes. He found I was hopelessly out of date. I
wasn't going with the times. I wasn't doing business
according to modern methods. Tell me, Father James,
when were the Ten Commandments aboHshed? No
one keeps them now."

"The country was never better, man!" said
Father James. " Look at your Confraternities and
Sodahtics."

282 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"I was speaking about the Ten Commandments,
Father James!"

"Look at the increased number of communicants;
look at the beautiful churches — "

" I was speaking of the Ten Commandments, Father
James!"

"The convents, the orphanages, the schools, the
hospitals, the asylums — "

"I was speaking of the Ten Commandments, Father
James!"

"Nonsense, man! Be practical! The country was
never so free from crime. Look at your quarter ses-
sions. The County Court Judges don't know what to
do with their dozens of white gloves — "

"I was speaking of the Ten Commandments, Father
James."

"And so am I. The judges at the Assizes confess,
and I'm sure reluctantly enough, that the country is
almost crimeless."

"All that may be true. Father James, and yet vice
may predominate. Crime and vice are two very dif-
ferent things. A crime may be committed under a
sudden impulse, and may be no indication of a bad
nature. Vice corrodes and eats away under the surface;
and a man may be practising it in every form, com-
mercial and otherwise, and yet the policeman's hand
may never rest upon his shoulder. That is what
modern education has helped the nation to accompHsh.
Who can say it is a failure?"

"You take gloomy views of things," said Father
James. "I am afraid old Halhssey has bewitched you
with Columbkille's prophecies. But remember, the
best way to make people good, is to tell them they're
good. And 'tis the spirit of Christianity to be always

A STORY OF '67 283

cheerful. 'Gaudeamus!' said St. Paul. 'Gaudeie,
iterum dico, gaudete!' The fact is, Myles, you must get
married. Between those books and Owen Hallissey,
you'll become a melancholic patient. Do you know
who was asking particularly about you lately?"

"No! some creditor, I suppose!"

"No! But your old friend, Mrs. Rendall — Mary
Carleton!"

"Friend? Why, I never spoke to the lady in my
life."

"Nevertheless, she is a friend of yours. Of course
you know why she got Rendall long ago to arrest you? "

"Yes! Poor Halpin told me; and quite lately Agnes
confirmed it."

"You can guess why!"

"Because Agnes, the little goose, went to her and
asked her to save me from the rising."

"Quite true. But you think she had no personal
interest in the matter."

"Hardly. Besides that is ancient history. Father
James."

"Of course. She is an excellent woman, however,
and is bringing up her children well. She is doing all
in her power to make that young lad of hers a National-
ist, or, I should say, a patriot."

"That is surprising in these days, when every young
lad is taught he has no country. And — his father
was a police officer!"

"That's the most surprising thing about, it," said
Father James. "I wonder where she got those
ideas?"

"I cannot surmise. Has she West Anglia on her
notepaper? The Scotch have N.B., and surely it is
time for us to acknowledge ourselves Britons."

284 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

" We shall never come to that," said the priest.
"By the way, Agnes is to be professed very soon?"

"I beUeve so."

"I hope she will invite Mrs. Kendall and her daughter.
They were very old friends."

"I believe the Superiors do all that!" said Myles.
He was anxious to get away from the conversation.

"But they always consult the friends!"

"If I am consulted I shall say, No!" said Myles,
rather sullenly.

"I must give you up, and leave you to your dreams
and Owen Hallissey," said Father James.

XL

Who was Owen Hallissey? He was a character,
and a famous one. He belonged to a type, which has
almost vanished from Ireland, — a caretaker and a
fierce Nationalist serving under an uncompromising
evictor and tyrant; an almost illiterate man, who
could, however, quote the Old Testament and Ossian; a
servant, absolutely faithful to a man whom he detested;
an unconscious wit, and yet a simple, guileless man —
just the one after Myles Cogan's own heart.

Myles had known him from boyhood. Many a
day he spent in that humble cabin there in the deep
valleys of Glenmorna, dying to get a shot at a hare, yet
always afraid of the stern gamekeeper. And then,
when there was no chance of fun, Myles would turn to
the old senachie, and Usten for hours to tales of Mile-
sian heroes, old prophecies, wild, strange legends of
saint or hero, until the evening fell, and he had to
hurry home to meet his father at the evening meal.

After the rising, and the long imprisonment in Dart-
moor, Myles became a hero to the lonely man; and it
was a ray of sunshine across the floor of his mountain
cabin, when Myles crossed its threshold.

Hardly a Sunday passed, in which the latter, after
the midday meal, did not walk up the steep mountain
road that leads to the summit of the hill, facing south,
and from which deep glens and ravines ran in all direc-
tions. In summer, he would fling himself on the purple
heather, and looking out leisurely with intense affec-

286 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

tion at the landscape spread before him, Usten to the
old man talking of the old times, and the people that
were gone, and recaUing many an incident that was then
of enthralling interest, but to which modern Ireland is
utterly indifferent. On all these visits Myles brought
with him a welcome present in the share of three
ounces of very black tobacco, and a package of snuff.
The Sunday INIyles failed to come was a lonesome
prelude to a lonesome week for the old man.

The Sunday after his last conversation with Father
James, Myles clambered up the lonely mountain side,
and descended into the valley where Owen Hallissey
had his cabin. It was one of the old cabins, of which
hardly a trace is left in Ireland. The walls of mud
were hardened into a kind of concrete, which not only
excluded the least damp, but was proof against the fierce
hurricanes that frequently in the winter time sweep up
along the valleys. There was one tiny window about
a foot square, a half-door, flanked by a full door of
strong red pine, a heavy and comfortable coat of thatch
through which projected the chimney, also of mud, but
bound around with sugans, or ropes of twisted straw,
as if to secure it against the storms. Inside, was one
room, which served as kitchen and bedroom for the
old man. His bed was in a corner near the fire, which
lay upon an open hearth, and poured its smoke through
the great wide chimney that was such a feature in
Irish homesteads. Near the fire was always stretched,
except when on duty with his master, his faithful
sheepdog. Tiger.

When Myles entered unceremoniously, the dog
gave a short bark, and then whined ^\'ith joy at recognis-
ing a friend. It woke up the old man, who was slum-
bering near the fire.

A STORY OF '67 287

"Good-day, Owen!" said Myles, cheerfully. "Tak-
ing a little snooze?"

"Begor, I suppose I was asleep, Master Myles,"
said the old man. "The ould age is comin' on
me."

"Never mind. You have many a good year before
you yet, Owen," said Myles. "You are not Uke the
poor little spalpeens of the present day, who are old
men at thirty. Come out, and let us have a breath of
fresh air. 'Tis a grand day, glory be to God!"

They sat on the rich clump of heather that crested
a little hill some distance away from the house. Or
rather, Myles, after lighting his briarwood pipe lay
at full length on the heather, and the old man sat near
him. He was a hale old fellow, over six feet high.
His face and neck were deeply wrinkled; but there
was not a sign of decrepitude about him. His cordu-
roy knee-breeches were open at the knees, the strings
hanging loose. His legs were cased in thick grey
woollen stockings; and on his feet were brogues
that defied wet heather ami reeking grass, and even the
snows that lay feet deep on the ground in the winter
time.

"That word you said, Master Myles," said the old
man, when he had filled and Ughted the old black clay
pipe, "makes me think."

"What word?" said Myles.

"Shpalpeens!" said Owen, chuckhng a Uttle to
himself. "That's just what they are — a parcel of
shpalpeens."

"Now, honestly, Owen," said Myles, "do you
believe that the men and women of today are not the
equals of them that you knew."

"Aiquals in what way?" said the old man.

288 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Every way," said Myles. "Are they as big and
strong and courageous and 'dacent' as the old people?"

"Wisha, faix, then, they aren't," was the reply.
"As to strinth, they're no more to the ould people,
than a hare is to my hound; as to dacency, the less
said the better."

"I wonder Columbkille did not prophesy that!"
said Myles, roguishly.

"Yerra, sure he did. Sure everyone heard of the
prophecy: 'When the min grow down, hke a cow's
tail, and the people are atin' one another's flesh, the
ind of the wurruld is at hand.'"

"I never heard that before," said Myles.

"Yerra, sure you've only to look at the priests.
Master Myles," said Owen. "Instid of the fine,
grauver, big men we knew, they're like little caushtheens.
Of course, I'm saying nothing against the clergy, God
forbid! but that they're not so current as the ould
men."

"I beUeve they're great friends of yours?" said
Myles. "Was it true what they tell, that you allowed
Dr. C — to shoot on the mountain but you wouldn't
let him fire until you told him, and then the hare was
a mile away."

The old man chuckled and coughed. The smoke
had gone the wrong way.

"The young prieshts do be telling them shtories at
the Stations," he said, after recovering himself.
"They're purty jokers sometimes. Sure, I never in-
trudes on them; but the ould prieshts would never sit
down to brekfus, unless I was forninst thim. But I
never goes in now, unless I'm axed. But, sure that's
nearly always. The man of the house is sometimes sly,
and he sez, 'Come in, Owen, and discoorse the clergy';

A STORY OF '67 289

and the byes push me in, and say: 'Give them the
Jebusites, Owen!' but I'm not as much at me aise, as
in the ould times. Why, av wan of these young min
sees a speck of soot or dust in a cup as small as the
pint of a pin, he blows his breath at it; and if the ould
woman takes it and gives it a rub wit' her apron, he'll
hardly take his tay out of it. Ah, God be wit' the ould
min. Begor, they'd drink out of the same cup with
meself."

Myles smoked placidly. The old man's conversa-
tion soothed him.

"You aften hard me tell of poor Father Maurice,"
continued the old man.

Myles nodded.

"Ah! He was the grand man intirely. I never saw
his aiqual here or there. He was a big man, and he
always rode a fine horse. Gor-an-ages," cried the
old man, enthusiastically, "to see him take a six-foot
ditch, his silk hat left behind him, and his coat tails
traiUng in the wind, 'twould make the dead dance in
their graves. Well, we had a station down at the Pike
wan morning. 'Twas at the widow Quilty's house —
a dacent good 'uman she was, God be merciful to her,
and to all the sowls of the faithful departed."

He lifted his old hat reverently; and Myles, taking
the pipe from his mouth, followed his example.

There was a pause, as there always is in Ireland,
when their dead are mentioned. It sets them think-
ing of many things.

"Well, sure they're wid God," continued the old
man, "and we may lave them rest. But, as I was
saying, before the Station kem round, and when it
was published for Widda Quilty, wan of the nabors,
who thought a dale about herself, being some kind of

290 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

cousin to a parish priest, kem up to the Widda, and sez
she to her: 'I'm tould ye're going to have a station nex'
Tuesday, Mrs. Quilty?' 'So we are, ma'am,' sez the
widda. 'I suppose Father Maurice will be comin','
sez she. 'I hope so, ma'am,' sez the widda. 'I sup-
pose you know he's fond of griddle-cake/ sez the
woman. 'So they sez, ma'am,' sez Mrs. Quilty.
'Now,' sez the 'uman — Mrs. Morarty was her name
— 'I know what he likes better nor any one else; and
I'll make that cake for him and have it up here on
Monday night, an' 'twill spare you a lot of trouble.'
'Wisha, thin, Mrs. Morarty,' sez Mrs. Quilty, 'not
making little of you, me own little girl, Ellie, can make
a cake as well as any wan in the parish.' 'I know, I
know,' sez Mrs. Morarty, soothering her, 'but I know
Father Maurice's tastes betther. Now, lave it in
my hands; and you won't be sore nor sorry.' 'What-
ever you like, ma'am,' sez Widda Quilty, 'sure you
were always the good nabor.' Well, the Station morn-
ing came; and while the ould parish priest was calling
the list. Father Maurice shtrolled into the little parlour,
where the breakfus' was laid out. There were the
cups and saucers, and the grand butther, and the crame
an inch thick; and there were the cakes likewise —
Mrs. Morarty's and EUie Quilty's. Poor Father
Maurice took up Mrs. Morarty's first; and weighed it
in the palm of his hand. Begobs, 'twas as heavy as
lead with currans and raisins, and some yalla things,
I forget — "

"Lemon-peel!" suggested Myles.

"The very thing," continued Owen. "Well, he
weighed it, and weighed it; and then he pushed it over
to where the ould parish priest would be settin'; and
he took up the Uttle squares of griddle cake that Ellie

A STORY OF '67 291

Quilty had made. Yerra, they were as Ught as the
noneens, or the things the childre' do be telUng what
o'clock it is by in the meadows; and faix, he put it
down on his plate, an' drew over the dish with the rest
of the squares upon it, and put it near himself — "

"I hope he cleared it all away!" said Myles.

"Divil a crumb he left av it!" said Owen. "Sure
'twas the joke of half the country after. But I am
only showing what fine min the ould prieshts was; the
young prieshts nowadays wouldn't tetch a piece of
cake or home-made bread if you paid 'em for it."

"But are you able to discourse them, Owen?" said
Myles, "the same as in the old times?"

"I am, and I aren't," said Owen. "They try to
take a rise out of me sometimes; but, begor, I inds by
taking the rise out of thim. Wan of thim sez wan day
to me up there at Mulcahy's along the Bog road, 'do
you beheve, Owen, that Tobias' dog wagged his tail?'
'And sure, why wouldn't I beheve it, yer reverence,'
sez I, 'an' it is in the Scriptures?' 'But 'twas such a
small thing,' sez he, 'sure what differ do it make to us
whether he wagged his tail, or didn't? 'The man," sez
I, 'that would tell me a lie in a small thing, I wouldn't
beheve him in a big wan.' 'Good man, Owen,' sez the
parish priesht, 'that's worth all the commentatories have
sed on the matther.' 'And now 'tis your turn, Owen,'
sez he.' 'Give it to 'em hot and heavy!' 'Did you
ever hear tell of Aroer,' sez I, to the young curate,
'samesby he had a B — a, Ba, or an A-b, Ab, to his
name.' 'No,' sez he, 'what was it?' 'That's what
I'm axin' yer reverence,' sez I. 'A roarer?' sez he.
* Why every wan knows what a roarer is — a broken-
winded ould garron.' 'Consult,' sez I, 'the Book of
Numbers, chapter thirty-two, and you'll find your

292 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

mistake.' 'Wan for you, Owen/ sez the ould parish
priest, winking at me. 'What were the two rivers,'
sez I, 'that wathered the plain of Damascus?' He
was floored agen. 'Two for you, Owen,' sez the ould
man, laughing. 'There's only wan more to win the
rubber.' 'In what book of the ould Testament,' sez
I, 'are salts and Senna foUying wan another?' The
poor bye looked at me, his eyes starting out of his head.
But he hadn't a word in him. ' Three for you, Owen,'
sez the ould man; and begobs, he shpoke so loud, that
the byes heard him down in the kitchen; and they wor
laughin' theirselves sick. But the wimmin were as
mad as blazes; the wimmin are always on the priests'
side, you know; and they said I was an ould hambug,
and that I'd betther be minding ould Colonel Ivors'
hares than attimptin' to bate these learned gintlemen."

"Why didn't you fling Ossian at the young priest?"
said Myles. "You had him there entirely."

"Av course," said Owen, "but I'd rather bate him
on his own ground. An' that reminds me that I have
come to the conclusion after a lot of readin' and
refiectin' that the prophet Jeremiah was either an
Irishman, or shpint some time here. Where else could
he get thim 'Lamentations'? Now, every wan knows
that the Irish had their lamantations, from ould Ossian
down to the keeners, and from the keeners down to
the ballad singers at the fair and the market — and
sure Ossian — I mane his books — are all wan long
keen!"

"Fighting and lamenting," said Myles, rising up
from his bed of heather. "That's our history, I
suppose."

"They were great men in these ould times," said
Owen. " Even their names had a mouthful in 'em, —

A STORY OF '67 293

Conlath and Cuchullin and Cuthona, Bragella and
Sul-malla, Calmar and Matha and Slimorra, Erragon
and Alcletha and Temora — 'tis like a grand ould
song from the ould hayroic days. Ah! 'tis many an
hour I shpinds, talkin' over to meself and conshthruin'
thim ould legends; and many a winther's night, when
the black clouds do be racin' before the blasht, and
the white moon like the banshee running agen thim,
and the little stars quinched now, and thin lookin' out
agen with their blue eyes — ah! many a winther's
night did I shpind, with the ould people, and their
battles and their songs, an' their lamentations, ontil
I began to think I was wan of theirsels, and that it
was up here in Glenmorna they were fightin'; and thin
I goes down from all the glory and the music and I
finds nothin' below there but a pack of pizawns and
kinats, who are watchin' me to see where I'm goin' to
lave me tuppence for a pint of porther — ah, Masther
Myles, will the grand ould times ever come back
again?"

"I fear not, Owen," said Myles, "but, at any rate,
the past is ours. They cannot rob us of that! Good-
day!"

"Good-bye and good luck!" said Owen.

Myles went down from the mountain; j'et he lin-
gered long, here and there, with all his passionate love
for Ireland kindled and inflamed by the magnificent
scenes that lay before him. The vast plain that
stretched downwards and onwards to where the cloud-
like and faintly-pencilled Galtees rose into the skies,
was bathed in sunshine, which glittered here and there
on the surface of some stream or river. White flakes
of cirrus cloud, infinitely diversified in form and colour-
ing, filled the skj'^ from horizon to horizon. And look-

294 THE. GRAVES AT KILMORNA

ing back he saw the summits of Glenmorna touched
more faintly by the sun, and purple shadows filling all
her valleys.

"Yes! God made our land for heroes," he said.
"But alas! where are they?"

XLI

The profession of Sister Ciaran was an event in
itself; and a great break in the monotony of Myles
Cogan's life. Agnes had begged for that Irish saint's
name; and she had obtained her wish; and with all
the pomp and ceremony of the Church, and all the
tenderness and sublimity that surround a young novice
taking her final vows, she passed through the ordeal,
which was also a triumph for her. She had delayed
too long her entrance into religion, chiefly for Myles'
sake; and her novitiate was, therefore, more trying,
but she passed through its little difficulties quietly,
her gentle, pliant spirit making it easy for her to sur-
mount every obstacle.

There was a pretty large gathering of priests and
laity. The former were invited ex officio; and although
neither Agnes nor Myles had made many friends, yet
somehow on occasions like these, friends will arise —
old convent fellow-pupils, a few from Kilmorna, a
remote relative here and there, and — Mrs. Kendall.

Myles found the scene rather embarrassing. He fol-
lowed from the front bench in the little convent chapel
the solemn and touching ceremony with interest and
emotion. He recognised the genius of the Church in
her mystic formulas; and the strain of majestic poetry
that ran through all these hymns and prayers and
seemed to lift the souls of men on the wings of inspira-
tion towards heaven.

296 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

It was a little shock to him, as it is to all Irish souls,
to come out from such an atmosphere of holiness and
dignity, filled as it was with the perfume of prayer and
sacred music, and to have to descend to the common-
places of life.

Then he felt what a lonely and solitary man he was.
The one great human tie in life was broken; and, with
the exception of Father James, he felt he was absolutely
friendless and companionless.

There was some whispering between Father James
and the priests who thronged the corridor outside the
nun's refectory, and some curious glances directed
towards himself. Then, a few of the older priests
came towards him, and ground his fingers in the palms
of their hands, murmuring something about his martyr-
dom, which was to them a thing of yesterday; and one
old man, with tears in his eyes, said:

"I'll die easy now that I have seen you!"

The Bishop shook Myles cordially by the hand;
and taking him affectionately by the arm led him up
to the table, and placed him at his right hand. Mrs.
Rendall was placed at the Bishop's left.

All was so far smooth and delightful; but now Myles
was tortured by the fear that the Bishop would for-
mally introduce him to Mrs. Rendall. Most fortu-
nately, Agnes came in, in all the glory of her black veil,
knelt for the Bishop's blessing, shook hands with Myles,
then went the round of the table to receive the felicita-
tions of the priests and guests, and finally settled down
at Myles' side for a good long chat, leaving the Bishop
to entertain his guest on the left.

"Are you happy?" said Myles, affectionately, to his
sister.

"Supremely. Nothing could equal the kindness of

A STORY OF '67 297

the Sisters and Reverend Mother. They didn't know
what to do for me!"

"That's very good," said Myles. "Who in the
world are all these grand people?"

And Agnes, without looking, was able to tell him all
and everything about everybody. And then, she
whispered:

"Mrs. Kendall — Mary Carleton, you know, is next
to the Bishop. Did he introduce you?"

"No, thank God!" said Myles, fervently. "I was
in mortal dread all along!"

"But why, Myles? She is my oldest friend; and
I'm sure she would like to speak to you!"

"'Twould be embarrassing to both of us," he replied.
"Better leave well alone!"

After a little time, the Bishop rose, put on his white
stole and blessed the Profession Cake; and shortly
afterwards, he shook hands with Mrs. Kendall and
Myles, and retired.

Myles whispered to his sister:

"You mustn't leave Mrs. Kendall alone. Go and
speak with her. I'll meet you later on, on the
grounds."

Then he rose up, and moved, with downcast eyes,
along the row of tables, and passed into the corridor.
He was eager to escape into the garden, where he could
be alone with his own thoughts; but he was instantly
surrounded by a little crowd of the Sisters, who gal-
lantly introduced one another to him; and then he
had to stand a cross-fire of questions — about Slieve-
Ruadh, the death of Halpin, his trial, his imprisonment,
the deadly ten years in Dartmoor.

"It's all ancient history. Sisters," he said. "These
things occurred so many years ago, and are forgotten."

298 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Are they?" said a nun, whose face bore marks of
great beauty, although she was middle-aged.

She put in his hands a slip, or cutting from a news-
paper. He glanced at it. It was frayed and yellow.
It was his speech from the dock.

"Don't think, Mr. Cogan, that we are all lost," she
said. "With all this trumpeting about modern poli-
ticians, some of us think more of our martyrs than of
their mimics."

He looked steadily into the Sister's eyes. They
were calm, yet there was a gleam of enthusiasm also
there. He said calmly:

"Yes! That too is a symptom and a symbol. I
was told a few weeks ago by a Thuringian gentleman
far down in Germany that the march of democracy had
crushed every symbol under foot. But, behold! I
have been face to face with them all this morning; and
they seem eternal. And now, just think! That one
soul should have treasured for so many years these
words of mine!"

"My father gave them to me on his death bed,"
said the nun, " and bade me never part with them. He,
too, was out in '67."

"Ah!" said Myles, "everything then is not lost.
I thought all was dead and gone."

"No, no," said the Sister, "but, Mr. Cogan, we don't
understand why men like you should shut yourselves
up in a hermitage, like a Carthusian monk, when your
country calls you."

"Alas! my country has not called me," he said, "I
have been told in all forms of expression that I am out
of date, and I have accepted that verdict."

"A true patriot is never out of date," she said.

"Sometimes, and then he is stoned or crucified,"

A STORY OF '67 299

said Myles; and his brave interlocutor could not say
nay. "Would you tell my sister I shall be on the top-
walk in the garden."

He went up into the garden, that rose, terrace on
terrace, behind the convent. He was dying for a
smoke; but his reverence for the place forbade it.
He gave himself up to a reverie, a favourite luxury of
his. The fact that this nun, who never expected to
see him, should have treasured as a precious legacy
that slip of paper, touched him deeply.

"When we cast the seed, we never know where it
will fall," he said. "Perhaps — "

He meant that he was about to examine the prudence
of his abstention from public life. Would it not be
manlier and better to face the horrid melee of modern
politics in the hope that the presentation of truth
might be accepted even by a few? And, suppose, a
man went down in the fight, beaten and dishonoured,
would it not be better than a career of ignoble idleness?
Then, he opened the morning paper; and, after a few
minutes, he chanced on a certain scene that had taken
place the day before at an important Council meeting.
It was appalling. He crushed the paper in his hands,
and said aloud:

"No! no! Better the solitude of Sahara than that!"

Father James was looking down at him.

"So you have come up here, Myles," he said, "to
soliloquise about politics. I thought you had made
up your mind about the Shanavests and Caravats
years ago?"

"And so I have. Father James," said Myles. "Sit
down! I expect Agnes every moment. It was a re-
mark made by one of the Sisters that set me a-
thinking!"

300 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Ah, yes! That is poor Doheny's daughter. How
the thing runs in the blood. We can't expel it, al-
though, as our Thuringian friend expressed it, Patri-
otism is dead!"

"The ceremony passed off well," said Myles, anxious
to get away from the subject.

"Beautiful!" said Father James. He didn't under-
stand tame adjectives. "And Agnes went through
her part well."

"Yes! And the Bishop was kind. But, Father
James, although it was flattering to be remembered
by that good Sister, if I were Bishop, I wouldn't allow
a thought of anything but religion and God to enter
within these walls."

"Begor, then, you'd have to build them a good deal
higher," said the priest. "These nuns have Irish
hearts; and you cannot sever them altogether from
their country."

"When I listened to that 'Ave Maria' during Mass,"
said Myles, "I thought what a grand thing it would be
to die then and there, and never come back to this old
clod of earth again."

"Ah, yes!" said the practical Father James, "but
you see things are mixed up on this old planet. If
we were to be listening always to nuns singing in choir,
how would the world go on? Yes, the Lord has made
a judicious mixture of life — prose and poetry, night
and day, pain and pleasure. If you want more than
your share of these good things, you lose all. Here is
Agnes!"

Myles looked, and flushed scarlet and grew pale,
when he saw his sister on the terrace beneath him.
Mrs. Kendall appeared to be speaking earnestly to her,
and remonstrating with her. Then, to his infinite

A STORY OF '67 301

relief, Mrs. Rendall stooped, kissed Agnes, and passed
down along the steep walks.

"Thank God!" murmured Myles.

Father James smiled, and said:

"Now, you and Agnes have a lot to say to each
other. But there is a limit. We have to catch the
four o'clock train; and there are four miles to the
Junction from here. Shall I say three o'clock?"

"All right!" said Myles.

"Mind, Agnes, not a moment later than three.
Good-bye, little woman, and pray for us — out in the
howling wilderness of the world."

XLII

There are no secrets in the world today, except
those of the Confessional; and the States of the world
will soon endeavour to penetrate even these. And,
of all places on earth, an Irish village is just the last
spot where anything can be said or done, or even
thought of, without its being known within twenty-
four hours to the entire community. Hence the two-
fold fact that Mr. Franklin, a well-known mill-owner
and wheat-importer, had been closeted with Myles
Cogan for several hours; and that Myles Cogan had
taken his clerk into partnership, was talked about in
every drawing-room and taproom in the village with
one unanimous and simultaneous conclusion, that Myles
Cogan was a bankrupt.

Yet Myles, quite conscious of his own solvency, was
kept unaware of the general verdict upon him. His
very aloofness made it an impertinence for anyone to
speak to him about his private affairs. But there are
certain persons who never know what an impertinence
is; and when they are kicked for the impertinence,
they wonder why some people are born thin-skinned
and sensitive.

One of these, named Supple, had heard of Myles
Cogan's supposed embarrassments, and made up his
mind to administer a little friendly advice. To Myles,
this man, now past middle life, was particularly obnox-
ious. He was one of those who, in the old evil days,

A STORY OF '67 303

when Kilmorna was a borough, was reputed to have
amassed money by accepting and delivering bribes
ad libitutn. At any rate, he was now in easy circum-
stances; lived in a quiet, cosy private house in the centre
of the village, had no occupation whatsoever except
the giving and receiving of "news." Every morning
after breakfast and the newspaper, he lit his pipe, put
his hands in the pockets of his pea-jacket, and, after
gazing at the sky for some minutes, and calculating the
signs of the weather, he turned to the left, and walked
down the street towards the Bridge, nodding right
and left to corner-boys and more select acquaintances,
for, as he often said, he had no pride. Although he
had read the morning paper from the title-page down
to the printer's name, he paused at the news-vendor's,
and studied the bills outside the door, even though
sometimes they were a week old. He paused at the
barber's shop, where there was always a little Parlia-
ment sitting, listened for a moment to the debate, and
passed on. It was a red-letter day for him, when he
met one of the local curates, button-holed him, and held
him for a quarter of an hour at the corner of a street.
He generally stopped at Miss McDonnell's, a little
millinery shop, where all local scandals were sifted and
strained. He passed by the Catholic Church, lifted
his hat, but never went in. When he got to the Bridge,
he relighted his pipe, leaned over the parapet, and
watched the river meditatively, all the time keeping an
eye open for some chance passenger, who would stop,
and exchange a little gossip. Then, he would stroll
home in calm equipoise of mind and body to his midday
meal, after which he emerged again, turned now to
the right, and made his rounds of the upper part of the
little town. He had had municipal honours, had been

304 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

P.L.G. and D.C. for his district. One coveted honour
he had never attained, although he had made frantic
efiforts towards it. He had never been asked to sit
on the bench at the monthly Petty Sessions' Court.
This was all the more strange, inasmuch, as he often
declared, he had helped many a judge on to the King's
Bench, and had made one Lord Chancellor. But he
was spoken of in the County papers as the best-known
and most distinguished citizen at Kilmorna.

Myles Cogan had a nodding acquaintance with
him; and did not seek for more. He was very much
surprised, therefore, when, the morning after his sister's
profession, as he was busily engaged with some farmers
at his little mill, he saw the distinguished citizen enter
the mill-yard, pipe in mouth, hands deep in the pockets
of his jacket, and with his usual air of absolute non-
chalance. The visitor watched for a while with a
critical eye the counting and heaving in of bags of wheat
and oats, the sweating labourers, the shrewd farmers;
and then, he sidled over to where Myles was superin-
tending, his hat and coat covered with fine flour or
bran, and said, with all the airs of an old and valued
acquaintance:

"Pretty busy, I see!"

"Yes!" said Myles, without looking at him.

"It is the best feature in our country at pres-
ent," said Supple, "that our local industries are so
patronised."

Myles was silent.

"Now, Mr. Cogan," said the fellow, "if you would
only combine a little public spirit with your industrial
zeal, it would serve you and the country."

"I am quite at a loss to know what you mean," said
Myles, turning around and studying the man. "And

A STORY OF '67 305

besides, I am extremely busy this morning, having
been absent from home yesterday."

The visitor declined taking the hint, and went on:

"It is not for me to intrude or pry into your private
affairs, Mr. Cogan; but I knew your father well —
Dan Cogan, as honourable a man as ever lived; and I
am damned sorry you haven't walked in his footsteps."

That expletive denoted a certain amount of honest
indignation.

"I don't understand," said Myles, coldly, yet he
was nettled by the allusion.

"He was a business man, and you are not," con-
tinued Supple. "He was up-to-date, and you are
behind the times; he was interested in public affairs,
he sought public honours and obtained them; and
you — "

"Well?" said Myles, with a little relaxation and a
smile that gave him away.

"Well, you choose to despise the people, to live apart
from them, and they hate you. Not a man in Kil-
morna but was delighted to hear you were in trouble."

"In trouble with whom?" said Myles, flushing
angrily.

"With your creditors, of course."

"And who was so kind and truthful as to inform
them of that?" said Myles, with difficulty suppressing
the desire to put the fellow outside the gate.

"They put two and two together," said Supple,
coolly, "and it generally makes four. Here is a busi-
ness man, whose customers are leaving him; here is a
rival, who is beating him hollow; here is a creditor,
who remains for hours in his shop; and here is a clerk,
suddenly advanced to partnership — what does all
that spell?"

306 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"What?" said Myles.

"Composition," said Supple, laconically. "Now, if
you had entered public life, and accommodated your-
self to the people around you, how different all that
would be."

"Explain. I don't understand," said Myles. He
was anxious to know what was in this fellow's mind,
which was also the mind of the public.

"Good heavens! you are hopelessly backward," said
Supple. "Tell me, how many contracts have you got
since you opened business?"

"Contracts? Not one!" said Myles.

"I know it. But you tendered?"

"Yes!" said Myles.

"And you were always beaten?"

"Always, till I gave it up!"

"Did it occur to you why you were beaten?"

"My prices were too high, I suppose."

"Not higher than those whose tenders were ac-
cepted," said Supple.

"Oh, yes! I was always told my tenders were too
high. They were bound to accept the lowest!"

Supple chuckled to himself and breathed out a column
of tobacco smoke.

"Blessed are the innocent," he said, looking curi-
ously around. " Then you never mixed a little chopped
straw in the flour?"

"Never!" said Myles.

"And you never put a couple of grains of shot in
the bran or pollard?"

"Never," said Myles. "I heard that such things
were done; but I didn't, and do not believe it."

"And you never kept a bottle of whiskey in the back
parlour?"

A STORY OF '67 307

"Look here, Mr. Supple, this is a painful conversa-
tion for me," said Myles. "I know my own short-
comings; I know I am not up-to-date; but I cannot
bring myself to believe that public life in Ireland is
so corrupt as you suggest. I believe in the old days,
when Kilmorna was a borough, strange things hap-
pened and large fortunes were rapidly made. But
to ask me to believe that commercial immorality is
everywhere, is too much. Good-day!"

Supple nodded, and was walking out the gate, when
Myles called after him.

"And, as I believe, Mr. Supple," he said, in cold,
sarcastic tones, that would have raised the skin on an
ordinary man, "in the absence of a local newspaper,
you are herald and general news scavenger in Kilmorna,
please tell your good inquisitive neighbours, who, as
you say, can put two and two together, that, so far
from being bankrupt, I can pay my creditors fourfold,
and have a handsome balance in the bargain."

Supple whispered softly to himself, so that Myles
could not hear him:

"Tell that to the Marines!"

He crossed the Bridge in excellent temper. That
terrible allusion to the rapid fortunes that were made
in the good old times, did not disconcert him in the
least. He simply made up his mind that Myles Cogan
was an ass; and he told everybody so. He told Miss
McDonnell. She snipped a thread with her teeth,
and said:

"He should have married years ago!"

"He's too sullen a fellow," said Supple. "No girl
would look at him!"

"Hundreds!" said the milliner. "He could have
his pick and choice of the parish."

308 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"I admire the Kilmorna tastes!" said Supple.

"Isn't he handsome?" said the little milliner, who
suspected, as she afterwards explained, "that Supple
had got his lay." "Isn't he the beau ideal of a man?
And hasn't he got means? What more does a girl
require?"

"Means? And he makes that old craw-thumper,
Cleary, a partner? My dear Mary, don't try to be
too innocent!" said Supple.

"I know it looked suspicious," said the milliner.
"Old Dan Cogan would never do it. But where could
old Mark Cleary make all the money, Mr. Supple?"

"Mary, too much innocence sits badly on you.
Good-day!" And Mr. Supple went to dinner.

XLIII

One morning, a few years later, Myles Cogan, after
breakfast and a glance at the morning paper, happened
to look up at a certain date card, or time-table in the
dining-room. He saw that it was April the 10th, and
he started.

"My birthday!" he said. "How many?"

He made a brief calculation; and to his astonish-
ment realised the momentous fact that this was his
sixtieth birthday. He was sixty years old. Yes!
He had passed the sixth great decadal milestone; and
now life, instead of moving up an inclined plane, would
mean a facile descent.

"Sixty years!" he said. "I must soon be making
my soul. Let me see! When was I in Melleray last?"

He consulted a diary; and found it was five years
back. A good many things had happened since then.

His business had prospered. He left the entire
management of the shop in town to his partner. He
limited his own duties to a supervision of the mill work.
From that he could not tear himself away. The old
mill-wheel, with its dripping diamonds, made a music
which he had listened to since childhood, when he
grasped his father's coat tails, and watched with dread
and curiosity the mighty wheel rolling on softly and
steadily, drinking up the water from the mill-stream,
and softly pouring it out from the valves again. The
rumbling of the machinery within; the atmosphere of

310 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

the place, white with dust of flour, the aspects of
the workers — their faces also drenched with flour, the
mill-leat, so deep and silent and smooth, with the
long green sedges and leaves swept on by the silent tide,
and waving with each breath of wind or ripple of sur-
face, the trout hiding beneath the soft mud bank, the
poplar trees, the great draught horses so strong, so
meek, so patient, the sturdy farmers eager to bargain,
but eager also to please — all these things, little in
themselves, made a picture, which could not be torn
from his book of life. It was its chief illustration.

Then, too, he had here with him the surviving mem-
bers of the "old guard." Many of the '67 men had
passed to their rest; but many remained. Not one
had abandoned him in his moments of trial; and he
had stipulated with his new partner, that not one of
them should be dismissed, but should be honourably
supported when unable through age or infirmity to
continue his work.

The mill-business, dependent a good deal on the
shop business, had gone steadily forward. Things were
fairly prosperous. There was no risk now of complica-
tions; and Myles, when the day's work was over, and
the mill-bell rang out at six o'clock, could go home,
wash up, have his evening meal, and sit out in his
garden reading, or watching the sunset playing on the
old castle walls without apprehension, or a sense of
neglect of his daily duties. Yea, the evening of his
life seemed to be closing softly and peaceably around
him, after the morning's stormy and tumultuous scenes.

He seemed to be drifting further and further from
public life. He read the morning paper; watched with
languid interest the course of that wretched gamble,
called politics; then went back to his poets and philoso-

A STORY OF '67 311

phers, and grew absorbed in the serenity of their ideas
and their lives.

Yes! Nothing remained now but to glide down the
declivity of life as smoothly as possible and to secure
a happy end.

That same morning of April the 10th, Mrs. Rendall
sat at her drawing-room window after breakfast. It
was a pretty room, daintily furnished. Wild spring
flowers were in vases everywhere; and a few late hya-
cinths filled the air with their pungent fragrance. The
bay window looked out on a pretty lawn, still covered
with daffodils. It sloped down to the little river,
which a few miles farther down formed the mill-leat
that turned the mill-wheel at Myles Cogan's. Mrs.
Rendall was busy, sorting and reading her morning's
post. One letter she barely opened and then laid aside
for a more careful perusal. It was from her son at
Cambridge.

When she had time to read it carefully, she learned
that Hugh Rendall had been president of the Debating
Club, that they had had a fierce discussion on Home
Rule; that the Home Rulers had won hands down;
that he was eager to go home, and enter public life,
but that he would not be the bidden slave of any party,
but would face the world as an independent.

There was a little boyish self-consciousness in the
letter (although Hugh was now twenty-four years old),
which made his mother smile. But then it threw her
into a reverie, where she dreamed of her boy in Parlia-
ment, making great speeches, doing surprising things
in general, and finally becoming master-debater and
paramount Lord to all the nation. Who is there that
cannot reverence a mother's dreams, however wild?

312 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

After a long reverie, she took up the letter again, and
read that Hugh was coming home for the Whitsun
holidays, that it was almost certain Parliament would
be dissolved in July, and a General Election would be
held in August. This startled the mother's fears. So
long as her boy's possible advancement was a thing
of the future, it was pleasant to picture it to the
imagination. But the prospect of its being an im-
mediate reality filled her with a kind of dismay.

Her daughter Genevieve came in. She was a tall,
handsome girl, very like her mother in appearance
and with that prompt matter-of-fact manner that dis-
tinguished Mary Carleton.

"There are two letters for you, Vevey," said her
mother. "I suppose about this golf business."

Vevey opened her letters with a frown of suspicion.

"Just as I thought," she said, with a little air of
contempt. "Mr. Halloran writes to say the links are
quite unsuitable; and that it would be impossible to get
a club together. Unless, he says, we take in undesir-
able persons. I wonder what are his notions of 'un-
desirable persons'?"

"Anybody under a lord, I suppose!" said her mother,
who had not lost her old faculty of saying sarcastic
things. "I believe he was introduced to Lord Kil-
iatty some time ago!"

"Yes! But it is very annoying. And I suppose
we cannot form a tennis-club, either, this year. What
is to be done?"

"But there's the Rector and his two daughters;
Mrs. Smith and her niece; some of the bankers from
the Kilmorna — "

"Ye-es!" said Vevey, doubtfully, "but in all these
things you need an organiser — someone, who will

A STORY OF '67 313

take trouble; and I depended so much on Mr.
Halloran."

"Well, don't quarrel with Mr. Halloran," said her
mother. "He is a useful kind of man; and we may
want him soon."

"Want him, mother? I should hope not," said her
daughter. "Of all things in this world that are most
detestable, 'wanting' people is the worst. You place
yourself under obligations; and then — "

She looked through the window in a kind of despair.
Life was hardly worth living.

Then a thought struck her.

"Want Mr. Halloran?" she said, turning round.
"How should we want him, mother?"

"Hugh is coming home for the Whitsun holidays."

"That's delightful, although I hope he won't make a
fool of himself with that Miss Fortescue again. They
certainly got themselves talked about. But Hugh
coming home! That's a fresh idea about the golf
and tennis!"

She turned to the window again. She was easily
abstracted. Then she recollected, and gathered up
her train of thought.

"But what has all that to do with Mr. Halloran,
mother?"

"Well, Hugh has a notion of public life — in fact, of
entering Parliament — "

"Entering Parliament?" exclaimed Vevey. "He
might as well think of entering the Kingdom of
Heaven!"

"I hope that may come, too," said her mother,
gravely. " But why shouldn't Hugh enter Parliament? "

"Why? Because he does not belong to that set at
all. They wouldn't have him at any cost."

314 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"He is President of the Cambridge Debating Union,
and he is an ardent Home Ruler. What more is
wanting?"

"I'm sure I don't know!" said Vevey. "But 'Hugh
Kendall, M.P.' It sounds well. Won't Miss Fortes-
cue set her cap now in earnest!"

"Vevey, you are becoming most uncharitable,"
said her mother, in a tone of remonstrance. "Do
you ever accuse yourself of that, when you go to
Confession?"

"Never! Why, it is only legitimate criticism," said
Vevey. "If we don't talk about one another, what
in the world is there to talk about? And now — no
golf, no tennis, no — nothing! Oh, dear! What a
tiresome thing living is!"

"Well, if Hugh goes on, you'll have something to do.
He says the general election will be in August; and you
will have to use all your attractions to secure votes for
him."

"Really, that's quite jolly," said Vevey, who saw
that life was become attractive again. " Going around,
like a suffragette, making speeches from platforms,
talking to grocers' wives, admiring babies — yes, that
won't be bad for two or three weeks. But, mother,
where does Mr. Halloran come in? I had almost
forgotten him."

"He probably would be Hugh's agent — conducting-
agent, they call it, I think."

"Oh, then, I shall be civil to him, although I think
he's a muff. And that awful woman, his wife — oh!"

There was silence in the room for a few minutes.
Then Vevey exclaimed:

"Hallo! There's Nicker, dying for a run; and so
am I."

A STORY OF '67 315

A fox-terrier had bounded out on the lawn; and,
spying his young mistress, had been barking, and
leaping, and pirouetting even amongst the daffodils
to the dismay of Mrs. Kendall.

Vevey raised the window a little, stood on the sill,
and leaped down on the lawn; and soon, the white
dress of the young lady was a vision amongst the young
foliage of the trees, and Nicker was scampering before
her, trying frantically to do impossible gymnastics
for the pleasure of his young mistress.

XLIV

Myles Cogan had an invitation from Father James
a few weeks later to dine with him on a certain Sunday
at five o'clock. This was one of the delights of his
existence — a Sunday dinner at the presbytery at
Lisvarda; and the subsequent chat out on the lawn
with his old friend.

Just at this time, too, the latter end of May, the
country was in its gala dress; and Myles, who, like
every good Celt, loved the winds and the rains and
the storms of Ireland, so emblematic of her history,
had also a soft corner for the motherland when she put
on her holiday dress and arrayed herself for a brief
period in her sunshine and flowers. It was a lovely
run — that from Kilmorna to Lisvarda; and Myles
was not sorry that the little hills that sloped upwards
to the plateau where the priest's house was built,
compelled him from time to time to dismount from his
bicycle, and walk slowly, thus giving him time to
feast his eyes on all the glories of a summer evening in
Ireland. There was one stretch of road for two miles,
that was almost bewildering in its beauty, for he had
to pass through an open arcade of hawthorn-blossoms
and crab-apple blossoms, which sprang from banks
literally covered with primroses, wild violets and hya-
cinths, whilst festoons of woodbine hung from the
bushes, and the limes flung out their fragrance, and were
made musical with the hum of bees.

A STORY OF '67 317

As a rule, Father James had no other guest. They
had so much of each other's confidence, that a third
person would be out of place. But this Sunday, Myles
was surprised, and not too agreeably, to find a young
gentleman before him, and to be introduced to him as
Mr. Hugh Rendall. He had known there was such a
person, of course; but he had formed no other idea of
him, but as a young gentleman who had been studying
in an English University, and who probably would
follow in the beaten track towards some position of
dignity and emolument. Myles was not conscious of
any hostility towards the young man. Only, he would
have preferred one of his customary tete-d-tetes with
his old friend.

Hence, he was quite silent during the greater part
of dinner; and only woke up with some interest, when
the young man said modestly:

"Yes! It was that slum work in London, that made
me first realise that I had a country."

"It was a strange feeling," he said, "but when Wig-
ham and I had done our piece of slumming, according to
Toynbee rules, and I had a bit of leisure to myself, I
used get in amongst the Irish at Whitechapel or at
the Dials; and the first thought was, what brings those
people here? It seemed to me that the Jew, the
Italian, the German, the Scandinavian, were quite at
home there in the heart of London; but the sight of an
Irishwoman cooking a steak at a range, and a stalwart
Paddy sitting in a spring-bottom chair, seemed to me
the height of incongruity."

"But why shouldn't the Irish have good comfortable
chairs and a beef-steak for dinner?" said Father James.

" To be sure," said the young man. " Why shouldn't
they? But I couldn't get over the idea, that the whole

318 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

thing was incongruous, because I had never seen an
Irish woman cooking anything but bacon and potatoes
and cabbage, or an Irishman smoking except on a
sugan chair, or the flagged seat near the open hearth.
And then to see those foreigners come in with their
queer dresses and accents, and to know that instead of
his mountain-cabin, Paddy had but one room in a vast
tenement house, without air, or hght, or water, made
me always inclined to open our acquaintance by ask-
ing: 'What the devil are you doing here?'"

"And what used they say?" asked Father James.

"The old answer! 'We're better off. I have got
my two pounds a week; my boys are earning thirty
shillings each. Would we have that in Ireland?'"

"Of course not," I used to say. "But you had a
home to yourself on an Irish hillside, with the four
winds of heaven playing around, and the sun dancing on
the floor of your cabin; and you had plenty of pota-
toes and cabbage and a bit of bacon sometimes; and you
had your rick of black turf well saved from the bog,
with the creels lying on it ready for use; and you had
the drop of potheen sometimes and no ganger to smell
it; and you had the ould nabors dropping in of an
evening for a seanchus; and you had your own priests
— but I never went much beyond that, because I
used to see the old woman's tears dropping and hissing
on the pan, whilst the young chaps with their half-
English faces used look crossly at me for spoiling their
dinner."

During this monologue, Myles began to watch the
boy with curious interest. He saw a handsome ruddy
face, where the blood ran free and pure and even;
a mass of black curls were matted round his head, except
above the temples, where there appeared to be pre-

A STORY OF '67 319

mature baldness. His grey eyes were softened at the
remembrance of his exiled people, far away from their
native soil in that reeking London atmosphere; and
Myles began to wonder where the lad had imbibed
such a personal and wholesome feeling towards his
motherland.

"You seemed to have known the ways of our people
very well," he said at length. "It is not usual for our
gentry to know so much about the interior of an Irish
cabin."

"I used to live half my time amongst the people in
Donegal," Hugh Kendall said, "when father was
County Inspector there. You see you go out on these
lonely mountains — and they are lonely — why, this
place is a kind of Riviera compared with Donegal —
and you don't know when you may return. So I used
to say to mother: 'If I am not back, don't wait dinner
for me. I'll take pot-luck wherever I can get it';
and I used. The most tremendous meal I ever ate
was off potatoes and salt in a cabin in the mountains.
But the love of the poor people; the way the girls
laughed at me, when they saw me stowing away the
lumpers, was worth an alderman's dinner. Ah me!
How gladly would I go back amongst them again.
This place stifles me. I want to throw out my arms
and drink in the air of the Donegal hills."

"And do you think, Mr. Kendall," said Myles, softly,
"that you ever induced any of these exiles to return
home?"

"No!" said the boy, and his face fell. "And it
would be of no use. Once an exile, an exile for ever.
The people that go are never the same again. Some
change takes place — I don't know what it is — but
they are never the same. Some do come back, when

320 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

the times are hard in Babylon; but they cannot settle
down. The glamour of London follows them, — the
streets, the lights, the shops, the coffee-stalls, the tripe-
shop, and — the wild mad rush of millions of people!
You see, so long as they stay at home, the very silence
and solitude of the hills has a charm for them. But
let them once hear the roar of London, and it will be
evermore in their ears."

"That is the reason," he added, after a pause, "why
I think our people should never leave their country.
They are never the same again."

"But then," said Myles, "how have you escaped,
Mr. Kendall? Were not you in the vortex of London
life, as well as they?"

"Yes! But as a traveller, as a spectator," said Hugh
Kendall. "No more. They lived there. I merely
walked through."

"Let us come out," said Father James, "and enjoy
the evening outside. And you can retort on Mr. Cogan,
for he lived ten long years in England, and you see how
he is spoiled for evermore."

"I didn't know," the young man said, putting aside
his napkin, and looking curiously at Myles. "In
what part of England did you live, Mr. Cogan?"

"Father James shouldn't have alluded to it," said
Myles, taking out and filling his pipe. "'Let the dead
past bury the dead.' I was in gaol."

The young man started back, and looked frightfully
embarrassed. Father James had gone into the house
to order "materials." There was a painful silence
between the two men. Myles smoked his briarwood
pipe calmly enough; but Hugh Kendall smoked ciga-
rette after cigarette violently, flinging them away when
they were half consumed. At last, and it seemed an

A STORY OF '67 321

interminable time to the younger man, the priest came
out; a table was laid, and hot water and sugar, and
whiskey and coffee were produced.

After an interval, Myles said:

"Mr, Rendall was curious to know where I spent
my ten years in England; and I have told him that
I was in gaol."

"Aye, so you were," said the priest, "and you're not
likely to forget it. But it had not the effect of London
life on you. You came back a more egregious Irish-
man than ever."

Still puzzled and silent, Hugh Rendall poured out
some coffee. He didn't know what to think. He felt
that it was a delicate subject. And he also felt a little
humiliation, and resentment at being asked to dine with
a felon. He was pondering over some excuse to get
away, when Father James said:

"It is a coincidence that it was your father, Mr.
Rendall, that arrested Mr. Cogan."

This made the matter more embarrassing, and
Rendall said-

"Indeed?"

"And, stranger still, it was your good mother who
suggested the arrest."

The young man now became not only embarrassed,
but angry. Was this an ugly plot to throw in his face
some personal disagreement of long ago? He turned
his face away.

"But it was a friendly act," continued the priest.
"Mr. Cogan was arrested at your mother's suggestion
to save him from taking part in the Fenian rising."

"Then Mr. Cogan was a Fenian?" said the young
man, who was suddenly changed from a sceptic to an
admirer.

322 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

''Yes! He was Head Centre at Kilmorna. He was
with James Halpin, when he was killed at Slieve-Ruadh.
He was arrested, sentenced to be hanged, drawn and
quartered; and spent ten of the best years of his life
in Dartmoor."

It was Hugh Kendall's turn now to be heartily-
ashamed of himself. Two minutes ago, he shuddered
at the thought of being in the company of a convicted
felon; now, he felt he was in the presence of a hero.
He did not know what to do. His first impulse was to
stand up and make a humble confession of the unworthy
suspicions he had harboured. Then, he hated scenes;
and he felt that neither the priest nor Myles would
relish a scene. He contented himself by saying simply:

"I heard Father and Mother discussing that troubled
period a few times. Father was bitter enough against
the Fenians. Mother stood up for them. From her
I learned to envy and admire them. But I never
heard Mr. Cogan's name mentioned as a rebel till
now. What a ten years to look back upon!"

Little the boy understood what those ten years meant.

"Strange," he said, "you never hear of anyone
going to gaol now — I mean for Ireland!"

"'Tis gone out of fashion," said the priest. "It
does not pay. It is not up-to-date. And our rulers
are at last wise enough to understand, that when the
gaols are empty, and the scaffold taken down and sold
for firewood, Ireland is contented and subdued."

"You think patriotism is dead?" said the young
man, eagerly.

"Dead as Julius Caesar!" said the priest. "We
are all now citizens of the world. Ireland is only a
little piece of rock and wood thrown by chance into the
Atlantic Ocean; and every man's duty is, on the prin-

A STORY OF '67 323

ciple of natural selection, to get on to the goal, and
push the feeble against the wall."

"And the National Anthem," said Myles, "is a
song you must have heard in the London slums —
'Yip-i-addy-i-aye!' "

" I can't believe it; I can't believe it! " said the young
man, passionately. "You are joking, Father James;
and Mr. Cogan is embittered. But it is not true; it
is not true that the nation has apostatised."

"A nation has apostatised," said Father James,
gravely, "when it surrenders its liberties; when it goes
begging, hat in hand, for favours; when it says to the
man who spares it the trouble of thinking, 'Thou art
our Master; and we shall have no gods but thee!'"

"Has it come to that?" said the boy, passionately.
"Is there no one to raise his voice and call back the
nation to a sense of self-respect?"

"That would mean martyrdom," said Father James.

"And," added Myles, "no one now sings:

' If Death should come, that martyrdom
Were sweet endured for you,

Dear Land!
Were sweet endured for you.' "

He little knew how prophetic were his words!

XLV

"You had a pleasant evening?" said Mrs. Randall
to her son at tea that night.

"Yes! Quite jolly. Father James is a brick."

"You were alone?"

"No! There was a gentleman there of whom you,
mother, must have heard; though you never mentioned
his name, — Mr. Cogan."

"Yes!" said his mother, whilst a faint blush seemed
to run up her forehead, and be lost in her white hair.
"He was a Fenian leader, and spent some years in
gaol."

"So he told me; and by Jove, I was never so near
making an ass of myself before."

"Oh, yes, Hugh!" said his good sister. "You for-
get that you proposed to Miss Fortescue!"

"Now, now, Vevey," said her mother. "That's
unkind. But what happened?" she saidi turning to
her son.

"Why, we were talking about England and how a
residence there alienates the Irish from their native
land. Then I was thrown on my own defence; and then
Father James blurts out, 'And Mr. Cogan spent ten
years in England; and he came home a better Irish-
man than ever.' I was stupid enough to ask Mr. Cogan
when we were together, 'Where he spent those ten
years?' He said simply, 'In gaol!' Bj^ Jove, I was
struck dumb. I could not imagine a fellow ten years
in gaol, except for forgery, or embezzlement, or some-

A STORY OF '67 325

thing worse; and I felt very ill at ease at the notion of
having dined cheek by jowl with a common felon — "

"You said nothing? I hope," said his mother,
anxiously.

" Fortunatel}'^, no; but I was about to get away ab-
ruptly, which would be as bad, when it came out that
Mr. Cogan was a Fenian; and had borne a good deal
for his country."

"A good deal?" said his mother, meaningly.

"Yes! I presume it wasn't all cakes and ale there!"
said Hugh.

"No!" said his mother. "It was so bad that the
country has managed to forget it. Somehow, Irish-
men have a wonderful faculty of bearing easily the
trials and martyrdoms of their patriots."

"But I think Father James said you were somehow
mixed up in the matter," said her son. "You had
him arrested?"

"Yes! Before the rising. His sister, who is now a
nun, — she was an old school-companion — came to
me to save him. I could think of nothing that would
save him, except to have him locked up; and your
father was obliging enough to do it for me."

"But how then was he at the shooting with the other
poor fellow, that was killed?"

"An American officer rode up, and broke the prison-
gate, or the gaoler's head, I don't know which — and
they rode on to the field of battle. There they found
Halpin firing away at the English troops across the
river. The officer was ordered away; Halpin, who
was in love with Mr. Cogan's sister, Agnes, was shot
through the lung; Mr. Cogan was arrested and tried
and sentenced to be hanged. That was commuted to
imprisonment for life. You know the rest."

326 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"But, mother dear," said Hugh, "when you knew
Mr. Cogan so well all that time, you never mentioned
his name; and he has never called here. Has he?"

"No!" said his mother, with some show of embar-
rassment, "Mr. Cogan and I are not acquainted. I
knew his sister well. I have never spoken to himself."

A statement which made her children stare.

"Well, I'm glad I have known him," said the boy,
with enthusiasm. "It is something to touch the hand
of a man who has suffered for Ireland. You don't
object, mother, do you?"

"No!" she said hesitatingly. "We are in different
grades in life; and, I dare say, Mr. Cogan would not
be complimented if we sought his acquaintance. But
it is fortunate for you that you met him. He is a good
man!"

"Somehow, the people say, he is very stiff and stand
offish," said Vevey. "I'll take some more tea, mother,
please! and the people, down there at Kilmorna don't
like him."

"I suppose he feels he's somewhat above them,"
said her mother. "You may be sure when he's Father
James' friend, he must be a little above the multitude."

"They both seemed to think," said Hugh, "that
there's not much patriotism left in Ireland, or, indeed,
anywhere. The old fiery spirit has gone; and the
people have become — well, calculating machines.
They weren't so in Donegal, do you remember? Why,
the people there did not know what to make of us."

"Ah, yes!" said his mother. "But they weren't
civilised, you know. They never saw a newspaper,
nor a train, nor an electric tram; and so they clung to
old delusions — religion and patriotism and the like.
We have changed all that."

A STORY OF '67 327

"Well, it is worth while trjdng to bring back the old
spirit," said Hugh. "I wonder would Mr. Cogan lend
us a hand?"

"Wait till we women get votes," said the good sister.
"Then, public life will be purified; and then, Ellen
Fortescue and I will stump the country for you."

"For you?" said her mother. "Why not go into
Parliament yourselves?"

"I cannot wait for that," said Hugh, taking the
matter solemnly. "It is now or never with me."

"Hugh," said his sister, gravely, "are you quite
serious in thinking of contesting this division?"

"Quite," he said. "Why not?"

"Do 3'ou know what 'twill cost mother?"

"Half your fortune!" he said.

"There now, you are going to quarrel again," said
Mrs. Kendall, rising from the table. "But do nothing,
Hugh, without consulting Father James. He knows
this place so much better than we."

A few days later, Father James called at Millbank.

"How did you like that young chap, Kendall?" he
said brusquely to Myles.

" Pretty well. There's something genuine about him,
although he was going to run home when he heard I
had been a convict."

"That's just what makes me think well of him,"
said the priest. "The moment he heard you were a
'felon' for Ireland, you saw how he changed. That's
not usual with his class, nor, indeed, with any class in
these days."

"Yes! It is all ancient history now," said Myles,
in a melancholy tone. "But what a revolution! and
how sudden it has come on. Everything that was

328 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

held in abhorrence in '67 is held in honour now. Every-
thing that was honoured then, is dishonoured now.
No nation made such a somersault ever before!"

"And no hope of going back?"

"Absolutely none. You know the Catechism says
there is no redemption for apostates."

"Do you know, Myles," said Father James, after a
pause, "I had rather listen to young Kendall than to
you? Of course it is youth that speaks through him,
and hope. He sees hope everywhere. He thinks if
a few strong men could be got together, to raise the
standard of independence, they could undo the mis-
chief of the last thirty years — "

"They could get their heads well broken," said
Myles. "The case is hopeless — utterly hopeless, I
tell you!"

"Nevertheless, Kendall will go on — "

"Where?" said Myles, in amazement.

"Here! He'll contest this division at the next
general election as an 'Independent.'"

"I hope you didn't encourage that, Father James?"
said Myles, seriously.

"I didn't oppose it," said the priest. "I put before
him all the dangers, all the difficulties, and the proba-
ble, nay certain, loss of much money; but he has all
the magnificent elan of youth on his side, and there's
no stopping him."

"He won't get even one to nominate him," said
Myles.

"Oh, he will. That's all right. And he says, if
you would only stand by his side, he'd beat any
opponent."

"I hope you didn't encourage that idea," said Myles,
with great gravity. '''You know that no power on

A STORY OF '67 329

earth could make me go down into such a Donnybrook
fair."

"I suppose 'tis the more prudent course," said
Father James, with unconscious irony. "But what
would Halpin say?"

This appeal to the memory of his old comrade
seemed to stagger the resolution which Myles had
formed. Yes! It was quite true that is not the
way Halpin would have acted.

"You remember his great principle," said the priest;
"it was you yourself often mentioned it to me — that
he died to lift up the people? It was not for Irish
independence he gave his life — that, he knew, was an
impossible dream; it was not for Home Rule even —
that was not spoken of in his time. It was to purify
Irish life; and to keep the Irish from running after
idols, like the Israelites of old."

"Yes!" said Myles, bitterly, "and how far did he
succeed?"

"No matter!" said the priest. "As old Longinus
used to say, 'To fail in great attempts is yet a noble
failure!' I like the heroes of lost causes!"

"It seems to be quixotic, impossible, absurd. Per-
haps it is old age that is creeping down on my facul-
ties. I was always convinced that if we had three
hundred Spartans here in Ireland in the days of Parnell,
or even one independent organ in the Press, that awful
debacle would never have taken place."

"I don't know," said Father James, dubiously.
"The sentiment of our people is always stronger than
their reason. Do you know my own blood boiled
within me, when I heard that despairing cry of his:

'Don't throw me to the English wolves!'"

330 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

" Quite so. I can understand. I will go further and
say that his last years were some of the most tragic in
all human history; and their events can never be read
by Irishmen without shame. All the greater reason
why weaklings like myself should shirk the contest."

"Yet, if Halpin were alive, he'd have thrown him-
self into the breach," said the priest.

"Possibly," said Myles, "In fact, he used to say:
'It was all the same, whether you fall by an English
bullet, or at the hands of an assassin.' Poor fellow, I
wish he were alive — although I don't. The affairs
of the present day would kill him."

"His mantle has fallen upon you!" said the priest.

"No! No!" said Myles. "I am not worthy. He
was a great spirit. By the way, I'm running down to
Melleray tomorrow for a day or two. Any message
to the Fathers? I haven't been there for five years.
I suppose they'll turn me away!"

XLVI

Since his last visit to the Cistercian Abbey at Mount
Melleray the imagination of Myles Cogan had been
haunted by a vision, which was commonplace enough
in itself, but which, in some curious fashion, had
fastened on his memory as a picture that could not be
covered over by the ordinary events of life.

Just after supper, and when the last bells were ring-
ing for Compline, he had formed one of the group of
men who passed from the sunshine of the hall into the
sudden gloom of the cloister on their way to the Church.
The contrast between the very brilliant light of the set-
ting sun, which flooded the hall and the dim twilight
of the corridor, was startling enough; but what caught
Myles' imagination was the figure of a monk in choir
dress standing, with his back turned towards the
visitors, still and silent, and looking out into the quad-
rangle, where a few shrubs were almost hidden in the
tall grass. He was apparently of middle age. His
greyish hair was cut close; he wore a light fair beard,
and a moustache fringed his lips. His cheeks were
sunken and pale; and there was a hectic flush on the
cheek bones. His hands were folded in his scapular,
and he was motionless as a statue. He never looked
at the group of men that thronged the cloister; but
when the last had turned the corner that led to the
church, he slowly followed. The pale, ascetic face
and the flush were not signs of delicacy, Myles thought,
so much as of mortification and inward suffering.

332 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Such was the picture that was ever before the fancy
of Myles these five years, and he was not startled nor
alarmed, but somewhat faintly impressed as by a kind
of superstitious feeling, when this evening just at the
close of May, and the day after his interview with
Father James, the very same experience occurred.
There was the brilliant sunshine flooding the hall;
there was a group of men, different of course from those
of five years ago; there was the same, dim, green
twilight in the cloister; and there was the selfsame
monk in exactly the same attitude as five years ago.
This time, Myles stared at him; but he could see no
change. The face seemed a little thinner. That was
all. Myles, though shy enough in strange places,
watched him narrowly, as he emerged from the chapter-
room. He noticed that he was not far from the
Abbot. Otherwise, he appeared, made his profound
bow, and passed to his stall like the rest, never raising
his eyes.

The following day, the genial lay brother, who was
in attendance on the guests, said to Myles:

"I suppose you'll be going to Confession?"

"Of course," said Myles.

"Well, which of them will you have?"

"I think it was Father Alphonsus I went to Con-
fession to the last time," said Myles.

"Ah! the poor man died soon after," said the brother.

"I hope you don't mean to insinuate," said Myles,
"that it was my Confession killed him?"

Whereupon, the brother had a fit of laughter that
nearly extinguished him. When he had wiped the
tears from his eyes, he said :

"No, no! The poor man died of a long, lingering
sickness. Ah, he was a saint."

A STORY OF '67 333

"Well, but now," said Myles, "who are the confes-
sors for poor lay sinners now?"

"Let me see," said the brother. "There's Father
Aidan, and Father Polycarp, and Father Ciaran, and
Father Hilary."

"They are all nice and easy with poor sinners?"
said Myles.

"Wisha, faith they are," said the brother. "Some
like Father Hilary, and some Father Polycarp, because,
they say, you needn't confess to him at all. He knows
all about you already."

"That's convenient!" said Myles. "But who is
the Father who stands in the cloister just outside the
big door? He's always there at Compline, and he's
always looking out on the quadrangle."

"Oh! That's Father Cyril," said the brother.
"He's home from Rome for some years, where he was
Consultor to the General. He's a great theologian."

"I see. But why does he be always there? He was
there five years ago, too, when I was here before, and
looking out at the quadrangle just in the same way."

"Ask me something easy," said the brother. "Some
say he sees a vision there every night; some say he's
watching his grave, as if he won't have time enough to
do that when he's dead."

"I wonder would he hear my Confession?" said
Myles. The mystery of the man enthralled him.

"Of course," said the brother. "But, as he is not
one of the four, he must ask the Abbot. What time
would you like?"

"Say ten o'clock tomorrow," said Myles. "There's
nothing — no service going on then?"

"No! All right! He'll be at your cell door at ten,"
said the monk.

334 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

And at ten o'clock next morning a slight tap was
heard at Myles' door; and his monk entered. Myles
was kneeling at the little round table, a crucifix before
him, and a little pile of devotional books under his
hands. He was facing the window which opened out
into the lawn. The monk, without a word, and with-
out looking at his penitent, took a chair, and also faced
the window, Myles kneeling behind his right shoulder.

Not a word did the confessor say, whilst his penitent
made a review of his life for the past five years.

Then, without turning his head, he said in a low
voice :

"You are quite satisfied now with your confession,
just the same as if you were on your death bed?"

The words struck Myles as somewhat ominous; but
he simply said, "Yes!"

Then, without another word, his Confessor pro-
nounced the form of Absolution, after ordering some
slight penance; and, without another word, the monk
arose.

"If I may delay you a few moments," said Myles,
still on his knees, "there are one or two things, which
interest me, and about which I should like to have an
unbiassed opinion."

"They have no reference to your confession?" said
the monk.

"No! They are quite extraneous."

"Then I shall have to obtain further permission to
speak to you," said the monk. "Can you meet me
on the Upper Walk in the garden at — what is the
dinner-hour?"

"Two o'clock!" said Myles.

"Very good. Shall we say one o'clock, then? You
are leaving, I understand, tonight?"

A STORY OF '67 335

"Yes! One o'clock will suit me admirably"; and
the monk passed noiselessly from the room.

Myles was somewhat displeased. There was a
brusqueness, a coldness, a want of human sympathy
in the monk's manner, which repelled him. But,
he had made his choice; and the matter could not be
reopened.

Precisely at one o'clock he was standing on the long
walk at the northern side of the garden, watching with
some curiosity some of the Fathers, who, with habits
carefully tucked up, were weeding and hoeing in the
garden in absolute silence. There was a hot sun beat-
ing down; but an occasional breeze from the south
stirred the fringes of the pine-trees that projected over
the garden wall.

He had not a moment to wait. His monk came
at a brisk pace out from the lawn and shrubbery; and,
coming up to where Myles stood, he placed himself
at his side, commenced a smart walk, put his hands in
his leathern belt, and said shortly:

"Well?"

Myles was dreadfully embarrassed, but he managed
to stammer out:

" I was a Fenian in '67; I put in ten years in Dartmoor
Prison. I am as deeply interested in the country now
as then, more deeply, more passionately than ever.
What I want to know is, are the people hopelessly
changed? Under the new materialism, is there hope
they will keep the old characteristics of their race?"

The monk slowed down in his walk, his eyes still
fixed on the ground.

"I have been away from Ireland," he said, "many
years. I have seen but little of it since I returned.
How have the people changed?"

336 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Every way," said Myles. The monk's indifference
seemed to exasperate him. "The old spirit is gone —
the old, free, open-hearted spirit that made the people
so lovable is gone; and, in its place has come in a
hard, grinding, material spirit. It is best described
by the new gospel : Every man for himself, and God for
us all!"

"But perhaps that old spirit had its faults, too,"
said the monk. "Were not the people too generous,
too free-hearted, too extravagant?"

"No, no, no!" said Myles, passionately. "The
spirit of our race — the spirit of our religion was sacri-
fice — the giving up something for our neighbour, our
country, our God. Now, 'tis self, self, self, eating into
and corroding everything."

"Yes! that is bad," said the monk, yet without much
interest or emotion. " But is it a national misfortune? "

"Undoubtedly!" said Myles. "It is as a national
misfortune I deplore it. I am not responsible for the
souls of the people. Let them look to it who are! But
I have always believed, I might have been wrong, that
we are a race apart; that so surely as Jehovah of old
selected the Jews as his people — the chosen nation —
so we, by God's design or destiny, stand aloof from
the nations around us. Their ways are not our ways;
their God is not our God. But we are forgetting our-
selves, just as the Israelites forgot themselves under
the thunders and lightnings of Sinai. We are going
after strange gods. The Philistines are upon us,
not to fight us, would to God it were so! but to show us
their reeking abominations."

It was the monk's turn now to be surprised. He
stopped in his walk, and, turning around, he looked
Myles steadily in the face.

A STORY OF '67 337

"Are you exaggerating, Mr. Cogan?" he said.
" When men speak rhetorically, I always distrust them."

Myles grew red under the reproach; but he rallied.

"You wish me to speak plainer. Father?" he said.
"I will. I say, the commercial immorality that we
supposed belonged to clever Yankees or perfidious
Englishmen is universal in Ireland today; I say the
natural affections are extinguished. Every will is
now contested; and the dead, with all their sins upon
them, are dragged from their graves to show how legally
incapable they were. Instead of the old grave dignity
and seriousness of the dear old people, I see nothing
but vulgarity everywhere. As to patriotism in the old
sense, — the love of Ireland, because she is Ireland,
and our motherland, — that is as dead as Julius Csesar.
The fact is, to use a slang word that has been flung
at me lately, we are up-to-date — that is, we have gone
after strange gods!"

The monk walked silently on, but more slowly now.
Myles was excited and emotional.

At last, at a turn in the walk, the former said :

"The whole thing is novel to me. No one has ever
spoken thus before. Perhaps the other Fathers may
have heard these things; but I am, just what you say
Ireland ought to be, aloof and apart! It may not be
well. We belong to this world as well as to the next!"

" Ha! That's just what I want to know," said Myles,
anxiously. "It is here the personal question touches
me. If all I say is true, and of course I don't say I
am infallible — am I justified in keeping aloof from
public life; or am I bound to go down at any cost to
my feelings, and help to purify that public life?"

"Well," said the monk, smiling, "we must establish
our premises first. You heard of Don Quixote?"

338 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"Yes!" said Myles. "That's just it. I don't want
to be tilting at windmills."

"Then you must be careful, my dear Mr. Cogan,"
said the monk, gently, "not to generalise too much.
Probably, you have certain ideals before your mind —
do you read much?"

"Yes! Of recent years, I have read a great deal."

"And great books?"

"Yes! The world's greatest."

"And you haven't mixed much amongst men?"

"No! I avoid them as much as I can," said Myles.

"Ah! There is the seat of the malady," said the
monk.

"But," said Myles, obstinately, "facts are facts,
Father. I tell you the country is turned topsy-turvy.
What was right thirty years ago is wrong today; and
public life is wholly corrupted. Then, all — everyone,"
Myles flung out his arms — "is preaching materialism.
The idea of Ireland as a great missionary country is
scoffed at; the idea of Ireland as a centre of learning
and sanctity, our old heritage, is not even named; the
whole mind of the country is directed in one way, to
be a little England or America — factories, indus-
tries, workshops, our harbours filled with ships, our
rivers polluted with slime, the atmosphere reeking with
soot—"

"Look! Mr. Cogan! You have been reading
Ruskin?"

"Yes!" said Myles, ashamed of being caught quoting
second hand. "He was the most truthful man of his
generation."

"But — the windmills?" said the monk. "Is Eng-
land less materialistic today for all his preaching — for
all Carlyle's scolding? Are not rivers polluted, skies

A STORY OF '67 339

darkened, children playing on banks of slags and cin-
ders, far more than when he thundered against such
things? Where's the use in useless preaching and
prophesying?"

It seemed the final word to Myles. The two men
sauntered on in silence.

"It is at least a comfort to know," said Myles at
length, "that Saul needn't be amongst the prophets.
My work is done."

" Yes, possibly ! " said Father Cyril. " Nations follow
their destiny. But it may comfort you to know that
your country can never live long in the sty of material-
ism. It is with nations as with individuals. Some-
times, an old man comes up here, just at the end of
his life to tell us, or rather tell God, that his whole
life has been a huge mistake. He set out, just as you
say Ireland is setting out, on the grand race for gold.
He would be a successful man, that is, he would die
worth sixty thousand pounds. He never lost sight of
that, night or day. It haunted him at his meals, at
his prayers, at Mass, on his journeys. It was the grand
objective of existence. He heard sermons denounc-
ing this evil, but they were not for him. It was the
priests' business to say such things on money from
time to time, and that was all right. They were or-
dained for that. But it was his business to make sixty
thousand pounds, and to have the newspapers speak
of him as a most wealthy and respectable citizen.
That too was all right. It was for that he was created.
Then, suddenl}^, he finds the prize in his grasp; but,
like the old fairy legend, the gold is but rusty leaves.
He is disgusted with his success. He loathes himself.
He remembers something about a camel passing through
the eye of a needle; and something about Dives and

340 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Lazarus, and a great gulf between. Then he comes
up here and resolves to disgorge the whole wretched
thing, and turn to better things. Now, that is just
what I conjecture, from your statements, will happen
in Ireland. The nation will go on from prosperity to
prosperity. Moral degeneracy must accompany ma-
terial progress. The nation will grow swollen and
inflated — and then, when the climax is reached, and
all the dreams of its patriots are realised, it will grow
disgusted with itself, for there is one idea that can
never leave it. It has haunted the race from St.
Patrick downward; it has gone with them in exile;
it was their comfort and anchor of hope in persecution
— can you guess what it is?"

Myles was silent, afraid to guess.

"Tell me," said the monk, after a pause, "what
brought you up here?"

"To make a short retreat, and a long confession,"
said Myles.

"But, why didn't you go to Dublin, to Cork, to
Limerick?" said the monk. "There are Houses of
Retreat in these places; and wiser and better confessors
than you will find here."

"It was the Mountain," said Myles, "and the soli-
tude, and that spire, and the chanting of the monks,
and their austere lives."

"Precisely. That is — the monastic idea — the idea
of Bruno and Bernard, and all our saints. But do you
know, that our modern silence and austerities are but
child's play, compared with those of the old Irish
monks?"

"So I have heard," said Myles. "It is hard to
believe it."

"You may believe it then," said the monk. "And

A STORY OF 'G7 341

do you think that that monastic idea, which is haunt-
ing yourself, although you don't perceive it, is going
to be quenched by a few years' prosperity? Never.
The nation will go on; grow fat, like Jeshurun, and kick.
And then, it will grow supremely disgusted with itself;
it will take its wealth, and build a monastery on every
hilltop in Ireland. The island will become another
Thebaid — and that will be its final destiny!"

"God grant it!" said Myles, raising his hat. "But
it seems so far away!"

"A thousand years are but a day in the sight of the
Eternal," said the monk. "Be of good hope. There
is an Angel watching over Ireland. Farewell!"

The monk stretched out his hand, which Myles
grasped. He seemed to wish to detain the monk
further; but the latter glided away silently, and Myles
felt very much alone.

XLVII

During the next few weeks, Myles Cogan had
material enough for meditation in the monk's last
words. He turned them over, again and again, in his
mind, contradicted them, refuted them, but always
ended in admitting their consolatory truth. The
monastic idea! The expression interpreted his own
thoughts and feelings during life; for even as a Fenian,
was it not the monastic idea, the idea of sacrificing
oneself to a great cause, of doing hard things, of giving
up life to infuse new life into the people — was not this
the animating principle that haunted poor Halpin,
and that had lain so long dormant in his own mind?

But the fatalism of the monk perturbed him some-
what. Granted that all things were revolving in a
huge cycle under the control of Divine providence,
were men to sit down and remain quiescent until the
cycle was completed? Somewhere he had read of the
sublime duty of "helping God." Some people he had
read about as "coadjutores Altissimi," — a sublime
expression! Yes! God needs to be helped. He
clamours for human assistance. And is it better to
stand aloof, and busy oneself in the arid Sahara of
books, than to go down and mingle in the conflict, even
though defeat were assured? There was but one
reply to that query; yet, when Myles reflected on all
that it meant — he shrank back into himself, saying:
** These things are not for me."

A STORY OF '67 343

He had no opportunity of consulting his friend,
Father James, on the matter; for the latter had chosen
the early summer months to depart on his holidays.
And then, suddenly, the Ministry resigned; and the
country was face to face with a General Election.

Promptly, and first in the field, Hugh Kendall issued
his appeal to the independent electors of that division
of the country. It was a modest, manly document,
setting forth the principle that it was not Acts of
Parliament, even though they should establish Home
Rule, that can ever build up a nation; that a nation
is great or little according to the genius and character
of its people; that, if the people are sordid and base,
and have sacrificed that first essential of freedom, indi-
vidual independence, no merely material success can
compensate for such national apostasy; and that,
therefore, he came forward as an advocate of human
liberty, untrammelled by any obligations to party,
and owing allegiance only to those who would confer
upon him the charter to represent them by their
unanimous suffrage.

The address was a little academical; and wanted
the fire and energy that comes from more popular and
idiomatic language. Nevertheless, it was a manly
document, and when Myles put down the paper, he
said:

"Poor fellow ! And he little knows that he is address-
ing a nation of slaves in the language of freemen; and
how can they understand him?"

He went about his ordinary daily avocations; but
read the papers diligently. In the beginning, young
Kendall seemed to be making some headway. His
reception every Sunday at different places of meeting
was respectful, if not cordial. Then suddenly a change

344 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

took place, as the day of polling came nearer. And
one Monday morning, Myles was horrified to read that
on the previous day, Hugh Rendall and his committee
had to face not only precious abuse from the opposing
party, but had been driven away by threats of violence,
and even some actual assaults. Halloran had been
struck and badly hurt; and Hugh Rendall had been
pelted ignominiously, until the police advised him to
retire for fear of more dangerous consequences.

Myles Cogan's blood boiled up at such intolerance,
but he shrugged his shoulders. It was nothing to him.
The dream of the monk, Cyril, seemed farther away
than ever.

All this time. Father James, who had openly es-
poused young Rendall's cause, did not approach Myles.
He knew his horror of such things; and he shrank from
interfering with his decision.

The last Sunday was approaching, previous to the
nomination of the candidate; and it was understood
that several meetings were to be held on that day by
both sides in the struggle. Party feeling, too, had run
pretty high. A good deal of drink had been distributed;
and it was understood that some rough work was to
be anticipated. The authorities were drafting in
police and troops to Kilmorna, from which, as from a
depot, they would be scattered amongst the neighbour-
ing villages. And Myles heard, as he had heard forty
years ago, the cavalry bugle-calls from beyond the
bridge, and he saw, and what various thoughts it
brought to his mind, the young hussars with their blue
or red tunics slashed with yellow braid, parading the
streets with heavy martial tread and clank of spurs.
Tho police were billeted here and there on unwilling
householders; and the atmosphere was thick with

A STORY OF 'tj7 345

conjectures of what Sunday's meeting might bring
forth. A few admired young Kendall's pluck; but
that feeling was soon swallowed up in political
animosity.

A few days before that memorable Sunday, Myles
Cogan was in his office at the Mill. It was early in
the day. The season had not yet come in, and busi-
ness was dull. Myles was reading some account of
meetings held in different parts of the constituency;
and, as all the speakers seemed to repeat themselves
in almost the same words, his reading was listless
enough, until his eye caught one sentence, which
instantly arrested him. It ran thus:

"I understand that our young opponent, as callow
as an unhatched chicken, has now enlisted on his side
a more mature person, whose only claim to considera-
tion is, that sometime in the remote past, he took the
field against the British Empire. {Derisive laughter.)
I do not wish to speak disrespectfully of the Fenians.
They had their day; and, I dare say, many of them were
honourable men. But their methods are out of date.
The age of tin-piking and hill-siding is gone; and if any-
one thinks that, because forty or fifty years ago he
took part in an abortive revolution, he can now com-
mand the votes of enlightened constituents who have
adopted more modern and up-to-date methods of
benefiting their country, then I tell him, and I want
you to tell him, that he must stand aside, and not
obstruct the nation in its path towards independence
(great cheering, and shouts of "The ould miller,'^
'^Better for him incrase the size of his pinny loaf," etc.).
Yes! the Fenians had their day and their honours, and
we don't grudge them; but the nation has forged ahead
since then. If this gentleman cares to join the ma-

346 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

jority of his fellow-countrymen, and stand in the ranks,
we will welcome him (shouts of "Will he bring his tin-
pike ivith him, Sorf ") ; but if he means to come down to
the hustings, side by side with a beardless boy, whose
father sent our bravest and best into English dungeons
and to the scaffold, then we shall, or rather you will,
give him the reception he deserves."

Myles let the paper fall; and just then, a servant
came over from the house to tell him that a lady had
called, and would wish to see him.

He was in no mood to receive visitors; he wanted
time to reflect and collect his burning thoughts. Then
he looked at his white flour-dusted coat and smiled
grimly. He took up the newspaper and went over to
the house. He placed his hat on the hall-rack, but still
retained the newspaper; and entered the drawing-room
to find himself, face to face, with Mary Carleton. The
two lives, which had been converging towards each
other for over forty years, had met at last.

She rose from the easy chair where she had been
sitting, and frankly put out her hand.

"I presume there is no need for an introduction,"
she said. "I came to you on behalf of my boy."

Instantly the suspicion crossed his mind, that there
was a plot on foot to drag him into this political strug-
gle in spite of all his resolutions, and he hardened his
mind accordingly.

"I can hardly imagine, Mrs. Rendall," he said, not
looking at her, but through the window, and across
the river, at the old castle, "how I can be of service
to Mr. Rendall."

"He is a candidate for this constituency," she said.
"The contest is becoming severe. He needs every

A STORY OF '67 347

help. He thinks — we think — that you can help
him."

"I have most carefully avoided politics for over
forty years," said Myles, speaking very slowly and
deliberately. "They never had any attraction for me
— now less than ever. I wish Mr. Kendall success;
but I cannot soil my own hands."

"He is contending for a great principle," said Mrs.
Kendall. "He is young and ambitious, of course; but
he has a great love for his countrj\ He thinks she is
passing through a period of much political degradation,
and he is anxious to bring the public mind to better
things."

"It is a pretty hopeless task," said Myles. "I am
informed that Mr. Kendall has not the ghost of a
chance."

"He is not over-sanguine," said Mrs. Kendall.
"That is why he wants you. You command great
influence in certain places — "

Myles shook his head.

"None, absolutely none," he said. "My old com-
rades have died out everywhere. A new generation
has come along. They have no sympathy with our
ideas."

"You spent ten years in Dartmoor," she said. "Do
you mean that that is forgotten?"

"Absolutely!" he replied. "To this generation, we
were fools — no more!"

"Then the people are sunken deeper than I thought,"
said Mrs. Kendall. "Is not this all the more reason
for trying to lift them?"

He shook his head. After a pause, he said:

"Has Mr. Kendall or his agents stated that I am on
his side?"

348 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

She flushed up.

"Certainly not!" she said. "That would be too
dishonourable. In fact, Father James has told us,
again and again, that you could never be induced to
take part in an election. Indeed, my son never had a
hope that you would take his part. It was I, with a
mother's foolishness, suggested that I should come to
you."

The words "take his part," and "a mother's foolish-
ness" seemed to touch Myles; but he folded the news-
paper, and, pointing to the speech that had already
agitated him, he said:

"I am quite at a loss to account for this, if it did not
come from some imprudent follower of Mr. Kendall's
who wanted to spur me to his side."

She read it carefully, but with some emotion.

"I cannot understand it," she said. "All that I
can assure you, Mr. Cogan, is this, that no one on our
side even thought of you as likely to help us, until I
myself proposed it."

"Then it is a challenge?" he said. "Very well!
You wish me to help your son's candidature, Mrs.
Kendall. In what way?"

She saw she had conquered, or rather that Myles
was conquered by that speech, and she said:

"Next Sunday, there are to be some critical meetings.
Hugh will speak at Meenus and also at Loughmir.
Will you stand on the platform, or the waggonette,
with him?"

"I hate all speech-making," said Myles. "It is
positively disgusting to have to face an unlettered mob,
and try to talk sense to them."

"Well, then, don't speak!" she said. "Hugh will
be satisfied if you stand by his side."

A STORY OF '67 349

It was a critical moment. Was he going to cast all
his resolutions aside, and face the ignominy of a con-
tested election? If the question were one of obliging
or disobliging Mrs. Kendall, he would not have a
moment's hesitation, although he was touched by their
faith and hope in him. But that speech was stinging
him by its insolent challenge. He could not under-
stand it. There was no doubt it was meant for him.
So the mob understood it. He was at a loss to know
how his name could have been introduced. His ab-
stention from politics was everywhere understood.
The old Fenians were supposed to look down upon
and despise all parliamentary methods of helping
Ireland. And he had been consistent. How, then,
could it be supposed that he had suddenly departed
from his life-habit, and that for the sake of a boy whom
he hardly knew?

Again, the suspicion crossed his mind that he was
about to be inveigled into the election by some secret
wire-pullers. He said at length:

"This speech is a challenge; and a gratuitous one.
I have given no one the least reason to think that I
would depart from the habit of my life. You assure
me it has not come from your side. Then, it is an
insolent challenge from the other side. Very well, I
accept it. I shall be with Mr. Kendall on Sunday!"

"Thanks ever so much, Mr. Cogan." she said, rising.
"It will give new hope to Hugh. May we put your
name on the posters?"

"By all means," he said. "But not as an orator,
only as a supporter of an independent policy, such as
Mr. Kendall stands for!"

She asked sundry questions about Agnes, and other
things, as he accompanied her, with bared head, to

350 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

the carriage. He answered in a mechanical way.
His mind was already far away, pondering the impor-
tance of the step he had taken. More self-possessed,
Mrs. Rendall entered her carriage and put out her
hand, saying again:

"Thank you ever so much!" and her carriage rolled
away.

XL VIII

The next few days were the most anxious Myles
Cogan had ever spent. He felt he had taken a most
serious step, and one from which every faculty and
feeling revolted. He had no thought of consequences.
He only pictured himself to himself as face to face
with a wild, half-drunken, insensate mass of humanity,
tossed and swayed by that worst of all passions, politi-
cal animosity. And nothing could come of it. It
was perfectly idle to hope that his presence could stay
human passion; or that the record of his life would be
accepted as a kind of credential for the honesty of his
motives.

His mind was not made much easier by his visitors.
On Thursday morning, the placards appeared all over
the dead walls of Kilmorna, informing the people that
Hugh Kendall, Esq., B.A., would address meetings at
Meenus and Loughmir the following Sunday; and that
Myles Cogan, Esq., Millbank, Kilmorna, and several
others had promised to be present.

In the afternoon of that day. Supple, pipe in mouth,
and hands stuck deep in his pea-jacket, strolled into
the Millyard. He was just the last person Myles
wished to see. Yet he thought perhaps the fellow could
throw some light on the situation.

"Well, Mr. Cogan," the latter said, "so you are
coming out at last? You should have done this thirty
years ago."

352 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"There was no call for my intervention hitherto,"
said Myles. "And I was never challenged before."

"I suppose they got some inkling of your intention,"
said Supple. "They have friends everywhere."

"Friends, or paid spies?" said Myles.

"We don't quarrel with words, or make fine dis-
tinctions," said Supple. "But everyone is wondering
what the devil brought out Myles Cogan to second
this young cub."

"I suppose that is your Parliamentary language,"
said Myles; "and as Mr. Kendall is only a mere ac-
quaintance of mine, I have no right to resent it. But,
I think that young cub will grow teeth and claws yet."

"But now, Mr. Cogan," said Supple, with an air of
confidence, "the public would like to know, you know,
what are your political principles, and why you take
up this new fad!"

"I cannot see what right the public have to make an
inquisition into my motives. But you may tell the
public that Mr. Kendall stands for independent thought
and speech; and so do I."

"I dare say," said Supple, coolly. He did not under-
stand such things. "If he gets in, and he has about
as much chance as my grandmother, he will probably
become an Under Secretary to somebody or other and
command some patronage."

"Possibly. Has he lost much on the score of bribery
or drink as yet?" said Myles, whose temper was getting
somewhat rufiied.

"I don't know," said Supple, blowing out a cloud of
tobacco smoke. "They say the old lady is prepared
to spend five hundred on him — "

"That's not much," said Myles. "I suppose his
opponent can spend a thousand."

A STORY OF '67 353

"He'll get an awful beating," said Supple, not heed-
ing the allusion. "Every priest in the district will
oppose him; nine-tenths of the people will oppose
him; even the old Fenians will oppose him."

" Don't be too sure of all that," said Myles. "Father
James and a few more are on his side; and he com-
mands some influence. As to the old Guard, why
should they oppose Mr. Kendall?"

"Because he's half English, because he is an un-
weaned cub, and because his father was particularly
hard on the Fenians. You have a short memory,
Myles Cogan!"

"No!" said Myles. "I have a recollection that my
name was mentioned in a most blackguardly manner
last Sunday by a paid hireling, probably half-drunk;
that his remarks were punctuated and endorsed by a
brutal mob; that it was a challenge, and that I have
accepted it. Good-day!"

And Supple went home, calling on the little milliner
by the way.

"Well, did you discover the secret?" said Miss
McDonnell.

"Yes, easily. I never have to fish long, before I
land my salmon. Mrs. Kendall was an old flame of
Cogan's — wonder you never heard that; and as the
Latin poet says, Love conquers everything. She was
at Millbank on Tuesday."

"No-o-o?" said Miss McDonnell, meaning: "What
glorious news? Well, well, wonders will never cease."

"It is a compliment to your sex that nothing else
could have dragged Myles Cogan into public life. But
he has not counted the cost!"

"But no true lover counts the cost!" said the milliner.
"It is quite clear you were never in love, Mr. Supple!"

354 THE GRA\T:S AT KILMORNA

She added in her own mind — "except with money."
He thought: "This may be the beginning of a breach
of promise case"; so he gallantly said Good-evening!
and spread the news of Myles Cogan's Platonic worship
through the to\\Ti.

To his surprise the news enlisted the sympathies of
the entire female population, to whom a romance of
this kind was more interesting than mere politics.
Myles Cogan suddenly sprang into popularity.

'Move serious, however, was the visit which his
partner, Cleary, paid him.

He was a grave man, seldom smiled, took a serious
view of everything, was somewhat pessimistic in his
forecasts of events, and sometimes got on the nerves
of ^lyles Cogan. This day he was unusually serious.

"You called about the posters for Sundaj-'s meet-
ing?" said Myles, abruptly.

"Yes!" he said slowly and hesitatingly. "It has
taken us all by surprise to see your name at all, and in
such a connection!"

"Then you all supposed," said M3'les, "that I should
have called a public meeting, and consulted the
people of Kilmorna before I took any steps in
public life?"

"Hardly that!" said his partner. "But of course
you have been leading a secluded life and the people
are dj'ing to know why you have departed from it."

"Let them read last Sunday's speeches, and they
will find the reason there," said Myles. "That black-
guard and hireling sent me a challenge; and I accepted
it!"

"I should have passed it by," said Cleary. "In
election times wild things are said on both sides, which
no one heeds. They are forgotten next da5\ Your

A STORY OF '07 355

part in the proceedings will not be forgiven or for-
gotten."

"Why?"

"Because political partisans never forgive," said his
partner. "They make a virtue of revenge; and they
will now revenge themselves on us."

"Their very worst cannot hurt us," said Myles, who
was, however, somewhat uneasy. " We have weathered
worse storms before."

"Then you will attend these meetings, Mr. Cogan?"
said the old man, who appeared to regard the matter
as still doubtful.

"If I am spared," said Myles. "I don't like the
business. It is against my wishes. But I have given
my word. I shall attend; but no more. Wild horses
won't get a speech from me."

"I am sorry," said the old man, turning away.
"Our business was prospering; and we should soon
have the lead again. Now — "

He turned away, and Myles felt for him. He began
to see how much our little actions control the destinies
of others.

Father James called. He was glad and sorry. He
was delighted that Myles should have come out of his
hermitage, even on such an occasion. He will become
a leading man now, the good priest thought. He has
twenty years before him yet; and he can do grand
work for Ireland in that time. But his heart sank,
when he thought of the fierce opposition that awaited
him. How will a thin-skinned fellow, like that, he
thought, face the furies of the market-place and hust-
ings? He will either run away, or make such a speech
that will electrify the whole country.

"Well, so you've changed your mind," he said to

366 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Myles a day or two before the meeting. "I am right
glad of it. The stones would cry out, if some man
did not come forward to protest."

"But I am not going to protest, Father James, except
by my presence. I have no notion of making a speech.
I should have nothing to say. As you are aware, I'm
quite out of touch with this generation."

"Yes, I know, I know," said the priest. "But at
least your presence will help. Mrs. Rendall is in great
hope now."

"I cannot imagine it," Myles said. "I cannot for
the life of me see how I can influence an election. The
public have long since agreed to forget Slieve-Ruadh
and Dartmoor; and, to tell you the truth, I am afraid
my presence will injure Rendall's cause. But I can't
help it. They wish me to go forward; and I go. But
it was only when the glove was flung into my face, I
took it up."

"No matter, no matter!" said Father James. "I
only wish you could conquer your shyness, or contempt;
and say a few words that would wake up the people
to a sense of their degradation."

"I'd as soon think of talking high morality to a lot
of cattle from the top of a ditch," said Myles. "But
one thing puzzles me. How did that scoundrel, who
attacked me last Sunday, come to know that young
Rendall had my sympathies? Mrs. Rendall assures
me it did not come from them. Where did this fellow
learn it, or could it be a political manoeuvre to get me
out, and show the 'Old Guard' how I had apostatised?
Supple tells me I shall find them dead against me at
Meenus and Loughmir."

"Well, well," said Father James, rubbing his hands,
"no one knows what is going to happen at election

A STORY OF '67 357

times. There are wheels within wheels; and Supple
is an old Parliamentary hand."

"Well, I suppose what is to be, will be," said Myles,
philosophically. "You're coming. Father James?"

"I am," said the priest. "But think again, Myles,
before you decide not to speak. We haven't many
platform orators on our side. A few burning words
about old times, about Davis and Mitchell and Kick-
ham, will rouse them. And if you cannot convert the
old sinners, you might put new ideas into the hearts of
the young."

But Myles shook his head. Or that point, his mind
was made up.

XLIX

On Sunday morning, Myles Cogan went to First
Mass at Kilmorna; and received Holy Communion.
At twelve o'clock, he left Millbank, and went back into
the town to join the cavalcade who were to escort Hugh
Rendall to the places of meeting. As he crossed the
bridge, he met one of the "Old Guard," who said to
him:

"You're goin' to the meetings. Master Myles?"

"I am," said Myles. "Are you coming?"

"No!" said the old rebel. "I wouldn't give a
thraneen for ayther side. They are all sack and sample
alike, — looking out for theirselves."

"Well, good-day, Mike!" said Myles, turning away.

"One word. Master Myles," said the man, detaining
him. "We're sorry you're mixing yourself with these
election blackguards. But maybe, you have your
raisons. You needn't mind Meenus much; but take
care of yourself at Loughmir. They're an ugly crowd
there!"

"All right! Never fear, Mike! Good-day!" said
Myles.

A waggonette well filled, and a few side cars, formed
the little procession that left Kilmorna just as the bell
was ringing for last Mass. There was a crowd. A
few cheers were raised. There would have been a more
hostile demonstration but for the hour; and the fact
that Father James, the former beloved curate of

A STORY OF '67 359

Kilmorna was there. As they left the town, the
Kilmoma fife and drum band, to which Myles had sub-
scribed regularly for over twenty years, left the town
by another road. They were now in the employment
of the enemy; and were going to Loughmir.

The little troupe reached Meenus, just as the people
were coming from Mass; and drew up in an open space.
The village was a wretched one — a few tumbled-down
thatched houses, one or two hucksters' shops, the
police-barracks, the chapel — that was all. One soli-
tary public-house seemed to have absorbed all the
wealth of the place, if one could judge by the exterior.

As Hugh Kendall's party waited in their cars for a
crowd to gather, they noticed that the well-to-do
farmers and their families hurried on to their traps,
and gigs, and made haste from the village. A few
loungers put their backs against a wall, and waited.
A solitary constable came down the street. Several
small boys gathered round the waggonette; and began
to cheer and mock alternately.

"A blue look-out!" said Father James to Myles
Cogan.

*'A few gallons of porter would have got up a splen-
did meeting," said a disgusted follower.

Hugh Kendall rose, took off his hat, and addressed
the independent electors of Meenus. He told them in
modest language why he was there. It was to put a
new spirit into the country. He had nothing to gain.
He sought no personal advantage. But he was con-
vinced that the country was passing through a crisis
of political degradation; and he and his friends were
anxious to purify public life and bring back the old
spirit of patriotism again — the spirit that animated

360 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Emmet and Wolfe Tone; Mitchell and Davis; and the
men of '67, the most conspicuous of whom had thrown
in their lot with him.

He spoke for half an hour. Not a cheer was raised.
The young gamins laughed. The policeman caught
himself smiling a felonious smile.

"Let us get away!" said Father James. And they
went.

Things were far different in Loughmir. It was a
fairly-sized town with some excellent shops and public
buildings, a handsome Church, and well-kept streets.
In the centre, a smaller street branched off from the
main street, and formed a kind of square. In the dis-
tance, but plainly observable by Hugh Kendall's party,
as they drove into the town, the Lough lay shimmering
under the summer sun. Myles Cogan was well-known
here. He had been doing business with the principal
shop-keepers for over forty years; he had boated, fished,
and shot wild fowl on that lough; but he knew that
political strife can wipe out all decent recollections;
and he was glad he had made up his mind that he
should be only a listener in the crowd.

As they entered the town, the opposite party had
gathered an immense crowd around a platform erected
in the square. There were three bands, whose drums
rolled out their salvoes as the people cheered point
after point in some speech. But, by a police arrange-
ment, the two meetings could not be held simultane-
ously. And a cordon of constables was stationed just
at the outskirts of the village to keep back the Kendall
party, until their opponents' meeting should be at an
end. They had not long to wait. The three bands
struck up three different tunes in exquisite discord;
there was an outburst of tumultuous cheering; and

A STORY OF '67 361

although the crowd had not dispersed, the police opened
up their ranks, and allowed the Rendall party to enter
the town. They closed up behind them, and marched
two deep behind the waggonette. The Inspector
looked very grave; and a Serjeant, approaching Father
James, said:

"Make your meeting as brief as possible. Father.
There is an ugly temper in that crowd."

They pushed their way, however, amidst some
cheering, but much hooting and shouting, to the square.
The police drew around the waggonette, keeping back
some ugly fellows with heavy sticks in their hands,
and young Rendall, with bared head, stood up in the
waggonette to speak.

Instantly, the drums began to beat to stifle his
voice; and a volley of derisive cheering greeted him.
A few potatoes were thrown; and the crowd began to
undulate, as the people behind crowded forward.

Hugh Rendall spoke in a clear voice that rang around
the square; and for a few moments, he got a hearing;
but then an organised clique began to shout; and the
big drums began to beat dow^n the voice of the young
orator. He persevered, however, under a fire of criti-
cism and pretty foul language; and then an egg struck
him right on the forehead and blinded him with its
contents. He put up his handkerchief to wipe away
the loathsome thing; and a young girl in the crowd
shouted out:

"Kiss me. Baby!"

This sally was met with uproarious laughter; which
soon changed, as is the wont with an Irish crowd, into
a paroxysm of fury when Rendall said, with some
contempt:

"My only experience of Irish women, hitherto, has

362 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

been of the clean and virtuous women of Donegal.
You seem to belong to a different race — "

A yell of maddened pride broke from the crowd;
and a gang of half-drunken rowdies tried to force their
way through the circle of police.

All this time, Myles Cogan was studying the faces
around him with some interest. It was forty years
since he had seen an election mob, such as was now
before him. Was there a change? Had education
and religion, the civilising agents of mankind, hand in
hand, raised this people from the fearful degradation
of Holloway's election, when he, after raising the burned
woman from the ground, and carrying her to a place
of safety, leaned his head against the wall of the bakery,
and wept? Alas, no! Time had made no change.
There were the same distorted and inflamed and furious
faces he had known; there was the same foul language
that had so often made him shudder; there were the
same intolerance, the same bigotry, the same senseless
and animal rage that made him weep for Ireland forty
years ago. Hot, furious words leaped to his lips;
wild storms of contemptuous rage swept his soul; yet
in a moment subsided. He murmured mentally:

"Ah, mother Ireland, mother Ireland, is this what
forty years have wrought in thy children? What
hope? What hope?"

The dream of the monk, Cyril, seemed farther away
than ever. How could a nation of contemplative
cenobites spring from such material as this?

Meanwhile, the mob surged and undulated around
the platform and the cars: and again the Serjeant
said:

"The horses are fortunately harnessed. Father; and
we can cut a way for you through the crowd."

A STORY OF '67 363

And Father James said, after a brief consultation:
"Yes. It is better. Driver, move on!"
Just then, Mj'Ies Cogan arose, and laying his hat on
the cushions of the waggonette, he said, in very gentle
tones :

"I should like to say a few words!"
The priest was thunderstruck; but had to give way;
and Myles, speaking from the side of the waggonette,
with half the raging mob behind him, shook them into
sudden silence. A great wave of human pity — pity
for these poor people, pity for himself, pity for the
dear old land, swept over his soul, and broke down all
the barriers of a resolute silence.

Myles Cogan was as well known in Loughmir, as in
Kilmorna; and the personal respect in which he was
held as a man of the highest integrity helped him now
in securing a few minutes, at least, of silence. There
were some derisive cheers from a portion of the crowd
behind him, where the worst elements predominated;
and "Three Cheers for the ould Feenean," "Hurrah
for the ould hillsider," "Did you bring your tinpike,
Mylie? You'll want it today!" were heard here and
there in the crowd. But the novelty of the situation,
the magnificent face and figure of the speaker, the
white hair standing up like stubble, and the calm bear-
ing of the man overcame for the moment the organised
hostility of portions of the crowd; and cries of "Whisht!
Whisht!" "Let us hear what he has to say for him-
self!" were echoed out to the very edges of the
meeting. He spoke in a calm, melancholy manner,
but he was heard distinctly, and understood, except
when he became transcendental.

"If anyone," he said, "had told me a week ago that
I should be standing on a political platform today;
if anyone had told me ten minutes ago that I would
make a speech here today, I would have reputed him
a madman. The idea of my mixing in latter-day
politics is utterly foreign to my instincts, to my feel-
ings, to my principles. I do not belong to this genera-

A STORY OF '67 365

tion of Irishmen. I was born amidst the gloom of '47
and '48; and in my childhood I drank in all the
inspiration that came from the music and the elo-
quence of that latter year. In my youth, I joined
the revolutionary party; but let that chapter of my
life be now unopened as it is forgotten. But I fly back
in imagination from the tumult and the rioting, from
the palpable dishonesty and political profligacy of this
age to the valour and probity, the disinterestedness
and honour, of the olden time, just as a visitor would
fly from the mephitic atmosphere of the fever ward in
a country workhouse to the clean, sweet air, and the
wild, wholesome winds that sweep around the summits
of Glenmorna. You will ask me then why I am here
today. (Cries of: "Because you are d — d well paid
for it, Mylie! Sure everywan knows you want the
graft!")

"No! my friends," he continued, speaking in the same
level tones, "your charitable conjectures are not well-
founded. I came to advocate a great principle — the
right of every individual Irishman to think as he
pleases on political subjects — a right which, under
specious pretences, has been denied to Irishmen for
the last thirty years. And if you ask me why I have
broken silence today, I answer, because, however
futile the attempt may be, I feel I should be a coward
not to stand forward, especially when the glove has
been flung in my face, and to say that in my opinion
we shall sink deei>er and deeper in political turpitude,
unless that priceless gift of individual freedom shall
be won back for the nation again. (Cries of: *' Bravo,
Mylie! But spake plain, man, and don't he using thim
big words!") There is much talk now about nation-
building; and I heard a number of galley-slaves, their

366 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

pockets turned inside out, and the whip curving over
their heads, trying to sing: 'A Nation once again!*
But I tell you, that in building up a Nation, it is not
to Acts of Parliament you must look, but to yourselves,
because no material gain can compensate for moral
degeneracy, and I doubt if Ireland ever sank lower in
the sty of materialism than in this present age. (Cries
of: '^Cut it short, Mylie! Don't be insulting the people,"
etc.) I speak in sorrow, not in anger, — in sorrow, to
see a great race, with all the elements of moral and
intellectual progress, failing to rise to the level of its
opportunities, because it will not see that it is from itself,
and not from foreign influences, its redemption must
come. Let us cease from being a nation of slaves,
begetting dictators and tyrants: (Cries of " We are not,
d — n you!" ''Parnell was worth a million of tin-pikers
and hillsiders like you." The tumult became frightful;
and missiles of every kind were flung from behind at
the speaker.) Well, I have done. I have said more
than I intended to say" — ("You've said too much!"
"Sit down, you bankrupt, or clear out of this at
wance")

Just then, the same young girl, who had shouted:
"Kiss me, Baby," to young Rendall, elbowed her way
through the crowd and, standing beneath the waggon-
ette, she said:

"Tell us honestly, now, Mylie, if we put in Baby
Rendall, will you marry the widda?"

The words were caught up with a shout of laughter,
and were repeated from mouth to mouth out to the
farthest edge of the crowd. The sudden anger of the
people was instantly changed into a chorus of merri-
ment, interspersed with all kinds of sarcastic and even
brutal remarks; but the missiles were showering around

A STORY OF '67 367

the speaker's head, and across the faces of the occu-
pants of the waggonette, as if to emphasize with a
kind of savage scorn the coarse merriment that echoed
along the square.

Myles, unable to divine her meaning, was looking
down at the girl, whose red hair was gleaming in the
sunshine, whilst her handsome face was lit up with
smiles at the success of her sally. Father James gently
pulled at Myles' coat. The latter turned round; and
just then a sharp shock seemed to lift his head off his
shoulders; he was conscious that warm blood was
running down his neck beneath his shirt-collar; he
stumbled forward, but recovered his balance; tried
to speak, but failed; then the faces of the crowd seemed
to fade away into a haze, and to melt into each other;
the houses in front seemed moving back in a kind of
cloud; and then a great darkness came down; and
Myles Cogan, the intrepid Fenian, the brave, honour-
able man, the unsullied patriot, was lying on the floor
of the waggonette, and men were bending over him
in sorrow and in shame.

A shout "He's killed!" went over the crowd; and
some said: "The divil mind him!"

Horrified, disgusted, angry, and ashamed. Father
James took the reins from the driver's hands, saying
angrily:

"If you had done what you were told five minutes
ago, this wouldn't have occurred."

The man made some apology; and the priest, whip-
ping up the horses, drove recklessly through the crowd,
and pulled up sharply at the Presbytery. A young
priest came out at his command, and was ordered at
once to anoint the dying man. This he did; and then
someone suggested a doctor.

368 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

"We'll have no more of Loughmir blackguardism,"
said Father James, still holding the reins. "Place
Myles gently on the floor, get your handkerchiefs and
staunch the bleeding, if you can, and put a cushion or
two under his shoulders, and let us leave this accursed
place at once."

They did as he had ordered; and slowly, very slowly,
so as not to promote the hemorrhage, the waggonette
moved forwards. And that night Myles Cogan lay
with shattered brain on the same bed where his father
had lain in apoplexy forty years before.

The family doctor was at once summoned. He made
a brief examination, and shook his head.

"Was it a stick or a stone?" he said,

"A stone," was the reply.

"It was well aimed," he said. "It has crushed in
the skull; and the fragments have pierced the tissues
of the brain."

"Is there no hope?" said Father James.

"Absolutely none!" was the reply.

Father James was beside himself with grief and
remorse. He blamed himself for having enticed his
life-long friend away from the peaceful seclusion of
his home, from the peace and serenity of a quiet, studi-
ous life, and brought him into that terrible arena,
where neither reason nor judgment nor human kind-
liness prevail, but all is noise and tumult, the clashing
of brands, and the fierce passions of men loosened from
the usual restrictions of decent life, and transformed
into wild beasts.

He went up and down stairs twenty times, asked the
little maid for a cup of tea, and forgot to drink it.
Finally, took his hat, and, crossing the Bridge, went

A STORY OF '67 369

straight to the doctor's house. The doctor was at
dinner; but he came into the hall.

"Is there not some operation, called trephining or
trepanning that relieves the brain-pressure?" the
priest said abruptly.

"Yes!" said the doctor.

"Could we not wire to Dublin, and get down some
leading surgeon tomorrow?"

"Of course. But it will be useless."

"How?"

"He could not be here before three o'clock tomorrow,
and—"

He seemed to hesitate. Then he said gently:

"Mr. Cogan cannot survive the night!"

The priest went back, and took up his station by the
bedside of the dying man. There was another mourner
there — Mary Carleton. She too was agitated by
conflicting thoughts — remorse again predominating.
It was she who had persuaded Myles Cogan to come
forward as her son's champion. It was she who was
responsible for that tragic death. It was her maternal
selfishness that brought that quiet, retiring man from
his mill and his books, and exposed him to the passions
of a drunken and howling mob. Her eyes were dry;
but they were sunken under dark streaks, as she looked
speechless through the window.

The night wore on. There was no more to be done
for the dying man. He could not receive the Viaticum.
He had been anointed and conditionally absolved.
Human skill was powerless to stay the hand of
death.

They sat, priest and woman, at either side of the
couch. They spoke little; and prayed much. There
was silence all night in that dark room, broken only

370 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

by the stertorous breathing of the dying man. When
the faint pencils of the dawn of that summer morning
stole through the blinds, and made an aureole of
roseate light on the curtains above his bed, the soul of
Myles Cogan departed.

LI

The funeral took place at five o'clock on Wednes-
day evening. There was an immense crowd. Nothing
attracts in Ireland, like a funeral. The carriages of
the gentry with closed blinds stretched along the high
road. A phalanx of grim, old men, the remnants of
'67, was drawn up near the mill wall. The coffin was
brought down at five o'clock sharp. The two atten-
dant curates put on their scarves. Just then, the
Kilmorna Fife and Drum Band marched up, drums
and fifes craped in black.

There was a movement amongst the old Fenians.
Then one stepped out — a grim and grizzled old fellow,
and accosting the Captain of the band, he said fiercely:

"Are you the leader here?"

"Yes," said the boy. "We came to play the 'Dead
March in Saul' for Mr. Cogan."

"Do you see these men over there?" said the old
Fenian, pointing to his comrades.

"I do."

"Well. They'll give you just five minutes to clear
out of this, you dirty scuts. If you don't, they'll
smash your drums and fifes; and then they'll smash
your heads into the bargain."

Shamefaced and frightened, they lowered their drums,
hid their fifes in their pockets, and slunk away.

A hearse, drawn by two horses, rolled up, its white
plumes waving in the wind. It was not needed. The

372 THE GRAVES AT KILMORNA

Old Guard had resolved to shoulder the coffin of their
dead chief to his grave. At a signal, the two priests
went forward, the remains were lifted up reverently
by four of the Old Guards, the remainder walking, two
and two, behind to relieve their comrades. Father
James was immediately behind the coffin, his head
stooped, and his eyes fixed upon the ground.

The funeral procession passed down along the road;
then turned sharply to the left, and crossed the Bridge,
beneath which the river, every ripple of which the dead
man loved, was murmuring its little dirge for him.
The grey old Geraldine Keep, ivy-clad to the summit,
looked down, and seemed to say: "Pass, mortals! I,
immortal, remain!"

On through the silent streets, where every shop was
shuttered, and every blind was drawn, the procession
passed; then turned into the graveyard, which was
soon filled. There, when the burial service had been
read, the hands of his old comrades lowered the coffin
of Myles Cogan into his grave, within one foot of the
place where the remains of his old friend, Halpin, had
already crumbled away. The grave was speedily
filled. The priests took off their scarves, folded their
stoles, and departed. The crowd melted away. The
little mound was raised, and the green sods pressed
down and beaten into the brown earth.

Then the little phalanx drew together, and made a
circle around the grave of their Chieftain. Father
James knelt down, and said the De Profundis and five
Our Fathers and Hail Marys for the deceased. And
one of the old men said:

"Forty years ago. Father James, you said a few
words to us the night we buried Colonel Halpin. Have
you nothing to say to us now?"

A STORY OF '67 373

And the priest, whilst the tears streamed down his
face, said:

"Nothing, boys, nothing! We stand above the dust
of the two bravest souls that ever lived and suffered
for Ireland. Whether future generations will come
here, and make the 'Graves at Kilmorna' a place of
pilgrimage, or whether these, too, shall be forgotten,
I know not. What we know is, that there lie two
Irish martyrs — one, pierced by an English bullet on
the field of battle; the other, after spending the best
ten years of his life in English dungeons, done to death
by his own countrymen. There they lie; and with
them is buried the Ireland of our dreams, our hopes,
our ambitions, our love. There is no more to be said.
Let us go hence!"

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